The Lost Of Love and War
by Butterfly Conlon
Summary: Original found version of "Of Love and War" a reviewer sent to me that I had written before my computer crashed. Several of the latter chapters are different than the cannon version. Purposely unfinised.
1. AN

"The Lost" Of Love And War

A/N: So you may be wondering why I am posting a "new" version of this story when the old one has been finished for more than several years. I first started this story more than ten years ago, and at that point had it more than halfway completed, when I had taken some chapters down to do some spelling checks on and at that point my computer crashed…along with all but four chapters of my story. So, in the ensuing years, I started from scratch and eventually rewrote it, with it taking a different path. After I had finished it, I was contacted by a reviewer who had saved the entire original version of the story and sent it to me, and after having it for several years, I've decided to post it in its original form…you can take it as you'd like, this is more for a lark than anything. Thanks as always. BC.


	2. Prologue

PROLOGUE

The twilight bathed evening was not of any importance. It resembled any other of the June evenings that blended indifferently into each other. There was the perfect balance of the breathless sun setting in the bloody red sky stained with too many colors and the cold stars beginning to appear that reflected on the East still river.

The only great disturbance one could have taken note of was the gunshot that ripped through the silent atmosphere, shattering the peacefulness, and the shuttering of the dock boards under the corpse that fell to them. The audible sound of the shot echoed for a few minutes before finally dying like its victim had.

And as though nothing had occurred, a smoldering silence one again fell upon the nameless dock in Brooklyn, all save for the heavy breathing of the three figures that stood in a half moon around the corpse.

The noise of the audible shot still ringing in their ears, they regarded the fallen cadaver that had been a Brooklyn newsboy-the way the lifeless limbs were sprawled in impossible positions and the river of deep crimson that trickled from the gaping wound in the unfortunate's head.

The assassin, her arm stretched taunt and away from her, slowly lowered the smoking revolver, her steel-gray eyes sharing in the somber scheme of her countenance. The accomplice to her left shared in her solemn expression. It was only the one to her right that was displaying any emotion: his coal- black eyes alight and his thin lips pulled into a disgusting smile.

The assassin shifted her eyes from the cadaver to the boy on her right, her eyes on fire. She raised the revolver, aligning it between his eyes. "If you keep smiling like that, Nero, I'll pull this trigger and I'll have no regrets."

His smile didn't falter, instead, it grew. He shook his hands in front of him as his dark eyes danced wildly. "Angel, baby, c'mon. Why ya seem as though ya at a goddamn funeral? You killed one of Spot's boys. It's not like ya just killed some civilian for Chrissakes."

Her eyes only narrowed more in fury, the gun still pointed straight at his forehead. "Can it, Nero. You know on any other terms I wouldn't give a damn about killin' one of them. But we've been on terms with them. No major rumbles for more than a year. We don't kill them and they don't kill us."

He inclined his head and tugged his mouth into a sneer, taking no heed to the revolver point-blank at his head. "Angel, you should know more than anyone else that Oliver don't take no shit from nobody. Especially Brooklyn." He passionately motioned to the corpse sprawled at their feet. "He was defiling Oliver's name." His eyes glittered vehemently. "Ya brother for Chrissakes! Insulting Midtown! Don't go getting' soft on me now, Haddox…"

She released a growl and stepped towards him, placing the barrel of the revolver to the flesh between his eyes. Her eyes in slits and glimmering, she cocked the trigger. "Don't you dare push me, Night, don't you dare."

A feverish silence fell between them as they regarded each other with impassioned gazes. It was Flynn Finesse, the third member of the party who finally broke them up.

"Hey, hey, hey," he fiercely cried, stepping over the corpse and placing a hand on the revolver and pulling it away from Nero Night's skull. "Knock it off, will ya? Oliver ordered us to do something and we did it. Christ, it's just a knock off. We never sat here and contemplated whether or not it was ethical to kill one of Brooklyn before. We just did it and went." His hazel eyes glimmered. "Did it and left. Left before either Spot or the bulls caught up with us."

Angel Haddox and Nero Night stepped away from each other, burning malice still laced within their glares.

Night's lips finally curled into a smile as he gestured towards the fallen newsie with his head. "Is ya name finally catching up with ya or something', Angel?"

Angel released a howl of hate as she wretched the revolver from Flynn's grasp and expeditiously raised it at Night, not thinking twice as she pulled the trigger. Yet Flynn had been quick, and placed his hands upon the barrel and thrust the gun upwards, causing the bullet to slice through the darkening sky, Night ducking low still.

For the twain time, the echoes of a bullet rang in their ears, yet this time followed not by the falling of a body to the docks but a revolver.

Nero straightened, incredulously regarding her with wide eyes. His voice was high and cracking. "What are you? Fucking crazy, Angel?"

Angel observed him; her breathing labored and bared teeth clenched together. "No, Nero, no. I'm not crazy. I'm Oliver Haddox's sister. And don't you ever, ever say anything like that again. Because if you do, Flynn won't be there and I will blow your brains out."

Night regarded her, hunched, his oleaginous hair and eyes just as raven glimmering in the waxing moon. Daring not to tempt Angel any further, he only straightened, and cocked an insolent brow, motioning to the corpse. "Come on. Let's dump him into the river before anyone comes. And we better do it real quick because isn't someone liable to think something suspicious after hearing two guns shots? Most notably Spot Conlon?" He cast Angel a caustic glare, who returned the favor just as gratefully.

"All right, guys, c'mon," Flynn instructed, falling to his haunches at the cadaver's crown. "Nero, you get his feet and I'll get his arms."

His eyes sharp and features set, Nero strode to the fallen's feet, roughly rising to his feet before Flynn could to the same, causing the body to be inclined at an angle.

"Nero, knock it off will ya?" Flynn hissed, rising as Night had done.

"Knock what off, Finesse? You want me to cry a river over this stiff?" Nero spat, as he and Flynn stumbled over to the edge of the dock. "Ya know, you're starting to get jist like Angel. What in the hell's wrong with ya? Getting all emotional-" He halted as he saw Angel stoop down in one fluid motion and retrieve the gleaming black revolver and casually point it in his direction.

Flynn's features twisted into determination as he and Nero swung the lifeless body to and fro thrice before releasing it and allowing it to hit the river with a grand splash. "I'm not getting emotional. Neither is Angel. We take it seriously. You take it as though they are animals or something and need to be hunted down."

Night allowed his gaze to flicker from the cadaver as it lazily began to flow downstream. "Christ, Flynn, he insulted Oliver. I don't know about you, but you don't insult Oliver Haddox and get away with it." His features twisted into a sneer as he observed Angel. "Maybe that's why I'm his right hand and you're only his sister."

With a slick click, the trigger of the revolver was once more cocked. "Is three times a charm, Nero you stupid bastard, is it?"

Flynn released a sigh and strode over to Angel, gently yet firmly gripping the weapon and taking it from her grasp and sliding it in the waist of his trousers. "Jesus Christ, knock it off you guys? Ho, come on, we have got to scram now. Don't want Spot to catch us, now do we?"

Casting Nero Night one more scowl, Angel Haddox turned and plucked the revolver from Flynn's trouser waist before continuing down the dock. "Let's go."

And Night and Flynn Finesse followed the assassin, as they always did in this habitual song and dance of slayings, and as the water-logged corpse of a Brooklyn newsboy drifted down the dark river that reflected the cold stars and bright moon, awaiting discovery.


	3. Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

The only objects that sat between the pair were the gleaming ebony revolver, the opened flask of gin, and the dead body.

Angel Haddox allowed herself a prolonged sigh, if not a deliberate one, as her upper half grew lax, her head falling between her bent knees and her arms draping over them.

Flynn Finesse, glitter-shot bottle in hand, gave her side a gentle nudge with his left hand. "Hey, why the attitude, Haddox?" he implored somewhat tipsily for it had been he who had consumed most of the near-empty bottle.

She shrugged absentmindedly, raising her head slightly and twining her fingers in her flaxen hair. She tried with a passion to study nothing but the tips of her sullied boots, yet her eyes deceived her as they fell to the corpse at her feet. A shudder wrought its way down her backbone as she regarded the carelessly sprawled limbs and the congealed blood that had run from the right temple. The fallen watched her with open eyes with its mouth twisted into a queer grin-a sinister grin.

Angel shook her head in disgust as she raised her right foot and quickly closed the corpse's eyes with the tip of her boot.

Flynn noticed this odd behavior out of his peripheral vision and cocked his head towards her, lowering the gin bottle. "What's all this, Angel?" he asked, motioning towards the cadaver.

Angel raised a brow; her gaze still transfixed upon the corpse. "What's what?" she murmured.

"This!" Flynn replied darkly, touching the base of the bottle to the body's forehead.

She turned her eyes towards him. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, right, Angel, you don't know," he countered through a belch. "Angel, you just killed the sonofabitch that your brother wanted dead. And, boy was he a hard sucker to get! You should be helping me down this here bottle in celebration, not me doing all the damned drinking-"

Her back grew rigid as she turned on him suddenly, her steel eyes flashing. "No, Flynn, I think you've done enough drinking for the both of us. You know, you sound exactly like Nero when you're drunk. One Nero Night is enough to last me a whole lifetime."

His brows knitted together in intoxicated rage. "Hey, is that an insult?"

Angel released a repulsed groan. "Don't flatter yourself, Flynn. You know damned well that being related to Night is ten times worse than someone spitting on your mother's grave."

Flynn pondered this as he fell back on his elbows, the rough cement of the stoop digging into the flesh. A strand of blond hair fell carelessly across his brow. He did not care to flick it away. "I know, Angel. I shouldn't have said that."

She released a grand sigh as she too fell to her elbows, the crown of her inclined head brushing his shoulder. The last time she had looked at the sky it had been a dark shade of velvety black and the cold stars had been quite prominent. Though, now, the sun was beginning to rise, and the east horizon was smattered with the faintest traces of pinks and pale yellows at the arrival of the lordly star.

"All night. It took us all night, Flynn, to track him down."

Flynn snorted, casting his eyes to the lifeless body. "Yeah, but usually it don't take that long. Usually we're back in Midtown by sunrise."

A silence fell between the pair as they sat reclined side-by-side, viewing as the darkness faded and as the first signs of daybreak became apparent.

"Flynn?" Angel said after a few moments that had seemed like hours, rupturing the silence.

"Um?" he dreamily replied.

"You know why we killed him, didn't you?" she asked.

Flynn elicited a great yawn as he raised an arm above his head before bending it and shoving it down his shirt collar where his gnawed fingernails drove themselves into his skin, trying to soothe an itch. "I don't know, Ang. Someone who did something to make Oliver mad as hell…"

"No," she said curtly, pulling herself into a sitting position. The words fell from her tongue in such a manner as though she despised to utter them. "No, Flynn. He was just a Bronx newsie, a stupid goddamn Bronx newsie who just happened to get a little ways off his turf and happen to run into my brother and look at him the wrong way." Her knees curled to her chest, she shifted her despairing gaze to Flynn who regarded her with intensity as he lay on his back. "And we don't even have any riffs with the Bronx. Ace Forrester's never done a single damned thing to Oliver and he has to go and…" She turned her head to regard the corpse. "He just looked at Oliver the wrong way-no, he probably just looked at Oliver. Probably just looked at him and Oliver thought that he would look mighty nice with a bullet in his damn skull.." Her voice began to falter.

Flynn immediately sat up, his jade eyes alive with vehemence as he placed a heavy hand on Angel's shoulder. "Angel, what in the hell is wrong with you? What in the hell are you talking about? You never went on like this before…"

She angrily wretched free of him as she raised her stormy gaze from her knees to view once more the fallen cadaver that was washed with the first brilliant streaks of daylight. "I'm not going on, Finesse, I'm not going on! I just-for these past few shootings I've been thinking. I mean, Oliver gives me my orders because somebody wronged him in some stupid way and then in the darkest hours of the night, I have to go and track them down. And sometimes I don't get to them in time and they recognize me. And they plead for their lives, oh Christ, they plead. And they sob like babies, that's what they do, and here I am with a revolver pointed at their head and I have to listen to their bullshit. It never affected me like this. I didn't give a damn about shooting them when we weren't on the truce with Brooklyn and they was killing us. Then, it was a free-for-all. No guilt getting in the way. But now, I swear he's lost it. He wants me to kill people that just look at him the wrong way for Christ's sake!" She inhaled deeply, raising her eyes to the expanding sunrise. Her eyes wild, she tossed the unfinished bottle of gin at the star, seeing if she could somehow hit it. "I never even wanted to do this shit anyway! I never wanted to, goddamn him!"

A heavy silence filled the air between them. Flynn released a heavy exhalation as he allowed his gaze to flicker towards the fallen Bronx newsie and back to Angel once more. "Angel, pull yourself together," he said breathlessly, firmly. "You're an assassin. A Midtown assassin. Oliver Haddox's own private assassin. I've never seen you like this. Usually if anyone has a problem, it's me. You're usually like Nero; you keep your emotions out of it. You have to keep to that, Angel, you have to. Because if you don't-"

"If I don't what?" Angel hissed, her eyes glittering with a fire. "I know I'm going to hell already. So If I don't do what, Flynn? What is it we 'don't do' anyway? We are fucking kids shooting people. Shooting kids. Am I supposed to do this for the rest of my life just because he commands me too? Can I help it if I'm developing a-" And she halted, a sudden terrible fear welling in the depths of her soul of the word she had almost uttered. She inhaled deeply and forced her unbridled emotions to be collected well enough so that Flynn would just think it a passing symptom. Her eyes narrowed and any emotion that had been displayed in them before was clouded over. "I am pulled together, Finesse."

And, as though to add more evidence to her statement, she picked up the revolver that lay at her feet with a flourish, and in a passion emptied the remaining bullets into the dead body. Even after the cadaver was through doing its sickening dance as each shot struck it, their echoes still rang in the lightening sky.

Flynn turned towards Angel, his heart racing in his chest. "Jesus Christ, Angel! Do you really think I like sitting on a damn stoop in the Bronx with a cheap bottle of gin and a dead body at my feet? Do you really think I like doing this? Murdering people who I don't even know? It's my job, Angel. I told you, I am an assassin. First it was Lyner and now it's your brother. I wish I could say that I don't get my feelings involved, that I can't get my feelings involved. But sometimes the part of the soul that I have left in me leaps out at the exact wrong fucking moments and makes me sorry I shot them. Of course, I'm not as strong as the others. So some of my emotions come into it as I kill them? So, what if I have a conscience? But it's money, Angel. And protection. Life is a bitch that doesn't care and sometimes you have to do shit that you don't want to do to even stay fucking alive. Do you think-"

Yet, Angel halted his remaining words, as she had risen abruptly to her feet and released a marvelous shriek at the infernal word. "And what, Flynn? I don't have a conscience? Just because you feel mercy before you so kindly blow their heads off, that makes you a fucking saint, Flynn? You're a murderer, Flynn, a good for nothing murder. Jesus Christ won't give a fuck how much you plead with him when you are dead about how you felt a little pity for 'em before you killed 'em. He'll just look at you like all the rest of the world does-a lousy, good for nothing bum. So you have a conscience, Flynn. And I don't?" "

Her voice was filled with passion and ardor, as though her immortal soul depended on the one answer that was elicited from Flynn Finesse.

He looked up at her, as her eyes burnt into his and her chest heaved, and simply replied, "No."

The answer ripped its way throughout Angel's insides, causing alien tears to brim in her eyes, as she felt emotions. She did not feel emotions, she could not feel emotions, yet she was experiencing them in all their agonizing glory. As she stood with the revolver lax in her grasp and her lips quivering, she felt like an utter idiot in the eyes of Flynn.

Jumbled, confused thoughts seemed to collide within her mind as she felt herself being regarded beneath his seemingly burning glare. She searched desperately for some sort of statement to respond with, yet when she finally opened her mouth she did not recall what she had said.

"Go to hell, Finesse! Go to hell, you lousy, fucking murderer! Stop walking on airs. You have no fucking soul."

She then turned and stumbled off the stoop that was located under the deserted building in the Bronx, stepped over her victim, and blindly made her way home.

Angel finally reached the abandoned warehouse that her brother and his minions called home when sunlight illuminated the world and the new day had begun. She threw herself inside the main doors, distraught and disgusted, her head down and her only wish to flee up the endless flights of stairs and to the third floor and the forsaken mattress in which slumber could overtake her for the day.

She fancied herself disgraceful and dirty, as though the unshed tears that were on the verge of making their journey down her cheeks were a betrayal to her brother, to Midtown-to herself. It was not the bitter sense of sorrow she was experiencing yet the excruciating irritability for allowing her emotions to interfere with her work.

Her gait brisk, she thrust herself through the decrepit first floor of the warehouse and up the flight of stairs to the second floor. All the boys resided on the second floor and Angel desired with a passion that she would not happen to encounter one-especially Oliver-in the state that she was in. Alas, fate was not on her side that particular morning for just as she rounded a corner she found none other than her brother himself.

She released a gasp, placing a hand to her mouth. The fright was not from the meeting of a fellow Midtowner, on the contrary, it was the fear that Angel had built up inside of her mind if one of them were to espy her on the experiencing these unfamiliar emotions.

She stepped back, her steel-gray eyes waxed, as she regarded his brother. From afar, it would have seemed a radical and ludicrous notion that Oliver Haddox could instill utter fear into the hearts of others, yet a glance closer would convince one otherwise. He reeked of something that was not physical-Angel often associated it wish the smell of death after one of her slayings. She often regarded her personality the doppelganger of his, as he was of fair height with lanky, accentuated limbs. A mop of dingy brown hair always covered his sharp, malicious eyes. The searing eyes that bore down upon her now.

"Angel," he said softly, his thin lips pulling themselves into a sinister smile, revealing his jagged, yellow teeth. "Since you are back I take it that you did it?"

She felt her breath bate in her throat as those eyes burned into her face; she knew that he was observing the watering in the creases of her eyes. She prepared to answer, when she saw Nero Night appear at his brother's side. His stature comically diminutive next to Oliver, he was wringing a towel between his hand and his jet-black hair was slick with water.

"Haddox," Nero said in his a voice as oily as his hair, letting his eyes wanders along her body before meeting her eyes. He placed the still damp towel around his bare neck. He was a plump, stocky boy with skinned tanned quickly by the summer's sun. He stared at her with eyes that always looked tired from beneath his deeply-hooded lids. "I see you knocked the bastard off. I was afraid that you had lost your nerve there for a moment."

Angel felt her face heat to a stunning shade of crimson, as she suddenly became aware of the revolver that was being loosely held in her right hand. How exquisite it would have been to aim at Nero Night's head and kill him once and for all. Alas, her bullets had been stupidly wasted on the corpse and Oliver would have her skinned alive for killing his right-hand man.

"Nero," she replied in a tone just as light. "Go fuck yourself."

Nero's eyes lost their smugness as they glittered dangerously. Though, she was in no eminent danger for this produced a sick grin on Oliver's behalf.

"Well, I must say good work, Angel, good work. I am only sad to say that it wasn't one of Brooklyn and one of the Bronx," Oliver hissed. His gaze suddenly halted then upon her eyes. "Why, dear sister, are you crying?"

Angel drew in a deep breath as Night's eyes shone brighter than the sun outside. She stepped backwards, flustered. "Of course not! Why in the hell would I be crying…"

"I don't know, Ang," Nero sighed. "All these killings, it might be too much for your feminine ways.."

Though, his words were soon murdered as with great fluidity, Angel had reached under her trouser leg and retrieved her back-up dagger for only dire emergencies. She then took the liberty of wearing a countenance of sheer hatred as she drew back her arm and sent the blade hurling over his head. The blade struck the wall behind Night just as he fell to his haunches and cocked his head wildly around.

Curses bluer than a summer sky benediction were then produced from Nero as he slowly, and shakily, raised himself to his feet. Angel had her way past him, her narrow eyes lingering on him, as she removed the blade from the wall with one sharp tug. She then kissed the blade in Night's direction, who elicited only more oaths.

Though, it wasn't Night's approval she was seeking, and her gaze flickered quickly to Oliver. She was quite relieved to find that his eyes glittered with grotesque amusement-Oliver Haddox was one of claret and was quickly excited by at the prospect of bloodshed.

Her eyes returned once more to Nero Night who hadn't presumably taken the warning she had uttered to him a fortnight ago to heed by the incredibly pale shade of white his flesh had taken on. He regarded her, his black eyes wide. "Angel, you are fu-"

Though, Angel did not allow him time to finish as she brushed past him, whispering in his ear the parting words of, "Just be glad that my gun wasn't loaded or I wouldn't have missed, Night. That's a goddamned promise."

She then quickly made her way to the second flight of stairs, flashing her unloaded weapon at any of the dressing newsies who happen to position themselves in the hallway and greet her with lewd statements. She climbed the creaky stairs in a whisper and was finally to the third floor of the warehouse, her quarters.

The warehouse was a great hulking building situated on the southern side of Midtown. At one time, it had housed a factory of some sort when that area of New York had attested to a boom, though that boom had quickly faltered and the factory had closed its doors forever. It had then become a meat- storage warehouse run between two brothers, yet the one brother had cheated with the other's wife or something of that sort and in a jealous rage the forsaken brother had torched the building-while his kin and wife were having sex on the third floor.

After the double homicide, the warehouse had sat desolate and decrepit, observing like a silent sentinel as a spectacularly dark wave of crime and violence swept over the area. The whitecap of that wave of violence had been none other than Oliver Haddox, who had adopted the old building as his own and converted it into one of the most fearsome areas this side of New York.

Though, Angel did not find the residence the least bit fear inducing as she wearily pulled herself up the last remaining steps and finally to the third floor. The third floor of the warehouse had always tacitly belonged to her- the others knew to stay away for they knew that they would be met with her glimmering revolver if they were to step foot upon it. It was nothing special indeed, it was incredibly dusty and cobwebs laced the charred rafters. A repulsive mattress lay in a corner to the left wing, a few yards away from a smeared window that allowed shafts of light to create bars on the antediluvian floorboards.

She released a great exhalation and her shoulders rounded as she wearily made her way to the mattress, before falling upon it in a grand heap. Pushing loose strands of her honeyed-hued hair off her brow, she shimmied up the right cuff of her trousers as she once more placed the glittering blade inside its rightful sheath that was wrapped about her upper calf. Exhaustion beginning to make its appearance known, she was about to fall back on the flat mattress and allow slumber to overtake her, when her hand suddenly fell to the revolver that lay beside her. With yet another sigh, she begrudgingly reloaded it with fresh bullets before sliding it under her moth eaten pillow.

And then, just as morning touched the land, Angel fell back to her pillow and was immediately touched by sleep, a sleep that was quite troubling, indeed.

***

A gentle nudge on her torso awoke Angel Haddox. She released a groan as her features twisted involuntarily into an expression of irritability.

"Angel, hey, c'mon, Angel wake up," a soft voice whispered into her ear.

Alas, slumber still impaired her better judgment and without even thinking for a twain time, she had reached under the pillow and grasped her revolver, cocking the trigger and pointing it blindly at the intruder. It was only when she cracked her eyes partially cracked, that they opened to their entirety and she lowered the gun, realizing whom she had pointed the weapon at.

Flynn was crouched to the right of the mattress and his features relatively calm. The beams of sun that shot through the window caused his golden features to come alive and rival him to Hyperion.

Sleep was soon banished from Angel's psyche as she immediately jolted to a sitting position, her eyes wide and full lips gaping. "Oh, God, Flynn! Christ, what are you doing? I could have blown your head off!"

A grin crossed over his mouth as he made himself at home on her mattress, falling next to her. "And I forgive you too, Angel Haddox."

She cocked a brow as she lowered the revolver, placing in its rightful place under the pillow. "Well, I think I would have killed Nero this morning if I hadn't emptied my last shots into the stiff-" Her words immediately died as realization of the previous night and that early morning flooded her mind once more. Her eyes were full of repentance as they fell to Flynn. "Oh, Flynn, you had to get rid of the stiff all by yourself-I never meant for that to happen…"

He was silent for a moment as he reached into his pocket, pulling out in a flourish a cigarette and a match. Placing the cigarette loosely between his lips, he raised a foot and struck the match on the sole of his shoe so it ignited into a blaze. He then lit his cigarette and inhaled deeply, closing his deep green eyes for a moment. As he exhaled a great ring of smoke, they opened in all their cat-like wisdom. His bright hair, which was usually pulled into a queue was loose and touched his shoulders. He brushed a strand carelessly out of his eyes. "It's not like I haven't got rid of a dead body before, Angel," he responded while shaking out the match. "I mean, I did odd-jobs here and there knocking off people before I got sucked into  
"Yeah, but you're not like them," Angel replied as she held out her hand for Flynn to give her a drag.

A smile crossed his lips as he watched her inhale on his cigarette. "And, Angel Haddox, no matter what you say, you're not, nor will you ever be like them."

Her storm-gray eyes opened wide in protest as she glowered at Flynn, yet his smile only grew broader. "No, Angel, I've known you for only the past two years but I think-I know- you better than your own self. No matter how hard you try to act like your brother, even if you do almost succeed the majority of the times, you'll never have as much hate inside you as him."

Angel observed him as he pulled his legs onto the mattress and as he fell against it, his hands behind his head and his ankles crossed. The sun highlighted his fair features and the smooth lines of his face as he closed his eyes and basked in the warmth.

She released a sigh as she turned forward again, listlessly tapping the cigarette and watching as the deadened ashes fell to the decrepit floorboards below. "Well, you could have fooled them," she finally replied. "Everyone else thinks of me as an Oliver only with tits. They think me bloodthirsty." She twisted her torso suddenly and fell to the mattress on her stomach beside Flynn, her hair falling down her shoulder.

Flynn lazily opened one eye and watched her as she continued. "I mean, you're the only one in the world that I can tell this kind of shit too. Anyone would else would think that I was cracking, losing my nerve. They only know my take-no-shit attitude and my revolver and that I don't give a damn who I shoot, that you don't cross me." She halted as she lowered her gaze to the sullied pillow. "You were saying those things today, about getting your emotions involved?"

"Yeah?" he inquired, his other eye cracking open.

Her gaze flickered to his again. "I was thinking what you said, that I was supposed to be like Nero-like Oliver-and not get my emotions involved. You then said that I was getting them involved, though, but then, then you said I had no…" Her voice lost her as she felt the alien pit form in her stomach.

Flynn rolled onto his side, his features somber, as he placed his right palm on the side of Angel's face, inclining it towards him. "Angel, I don't know what I was saying. You've always had a conscience. No matter how much Oliver's influenced you, you've always had a conscience."

Angel's hazy steel eyes met his. "Then I don't want one. I want it to be like before. When I could just kill and get this insane-almost lusty-high off of it. Now, now it hurts. How do you do it, Flynn? How in the hell do you do it?"

Flynn lowered his hand to his side and elicited a sigh, as he deeply pondered the question. He finally replied. "Because, Angel, I know of nothing else. I'm not that smart, I can't read or write so well and, as much as I hate to say it, killing is the only occupation that a bummer like me would be good at. I'd rather be where I am now-under Oliver's wing-than be out of his favor. I of course have emotions when I kill, and try as hard as I can they sometimes come through, but I do what I do and that is a good trade in Oliver's eyes. He uses my relentlessness just as he uses yours- others may mistake that for cold-bloodedness."

Angel viewed as the sunlight played upon his sullen features, her lips quivering slightly for the second time that day. "Flynn, how in the hell can you say that about yourself? You are one of the most intelligent people I know."

He lifted his blazing eyes to hers. "Intelligent? I can't even read or write for Christ's sake…"

"To hell with reading and writing!" she contradicted passionately. "Flynn, you have a mind, one of those minds that is just deep…"

He snorted. "A deep mind? Where in the hell will that get me, Angel? What, I could set up a booth in the middle of a street with a fucking banner that reads FIVE CENTS: GET DEEP THOUGHTS FROM NEWSIE."

Angel winced at his caustic words, her temper getting the best of her. "Flynn, you can be so goddamn stupid sometimes. I'm just worried that I will never get out of here. That I will always live in this shithole and kill people just because they looked at my brother the wrong way."

There was a heated silence before Flynn shattered it with his cooling voice. "Ah, Jesus Christ, Angel, of course things won't always be like this for you. You have so much and you don't even know it."

She regarded him, her eyes waxing as he continued, an amused smile dancing upon the corners of his mouth. "You know I'd ravage you in the blink of an eye right here and now if I didn't consider you like a sister, Haddox. Things will happen for you, mark my words."

Angel was unable to hide her brilliant smile. She fell back against the pillow with him, their golden-shot hair overlapping on the cloth, as her glittering eyes regarded the ceiling before shifting to him. "Speaking of ravaging," she said after a few moments. "This is where those two were going at it like rabbits when the one loony torched the warehouse."

Flynn shook his head. "You and your asinine antidotes."

Angel then inclined her head so that she could observe the bright sun that filtered in through the cobweb-laced window. "Hey, Flynn, what time is it anyway?'

Flynn shared in her angle of vision. "It was around three when I came up here. Was too damned tired to do anything today. Not to mention I had a wonderful hang-over from that shit gin you hawked, Haddox."

"Christ," she yawned, stretching her arms over her head, "I haven't eaten a lick all day."

This prompted Flynn to slowly rise to his feet, offering his hand to Angel. "Well then c'mon, Haddox, what the hell you just sitting there for?"

Angel's lips were pulled back in a grin as she took his warm hand within hers and rose to hers, also. Flynn then turned, his gnawed fingers finding their way through his shock of white-blonde hair and the areas of his neck as he scratched the itch that always seemed to haunt him eternally. She followed in his footsteps, an idiotic smirk upon her lips, when she abruptly halted, a shadow falling over her countenance, causing her smile to shatter. She then turned her head, her whole body then following, as she strode over to the mattress, falling to her haunches and reaching under the pillow and revealing the revolver.

She turned her hand, as the revolver glimmered prismatically in the sunlight. She was bound to this cold, ebony assassin whether she like it or not. It was though she had signed her life away in blood to always care for it. With a dejected sigh, she placed the revolver within the waist of her trousers and slowly rose, turning once more and proceeding to catch up with Flynn.


	4. Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

The Hideaway Tavern had a reputation.

Located a short walking distance from the warehouse through the shadow- laced world of Oliver Haddox's territory, the Hideaway was thought of the whore of all inns of the area-dark, dangerous, festering, and dirty. The tavern had always been a place that good folk strayed from; it had always attracted the forsaken of the surrounding areas. Yet, a few years past, its management had changed hands to a man of the namesake Terrance Sayler, just as Oliver was starting to make a name of himself. It seemed as though the shadow that consumed the area did not stray from the Hideaway, and the stinking tavern seemed to lure in more of the crowd that one would be want to find in dark alleys or long-forgotten prison cells. Sayler himself was an ex-con and fancied it to his liking that the number of murders in the surrounding area had tripled ever since he had taken charge of the Hideaway.

It was now in a corner of the foul-smelling, darkened tavern that Angel Haddox and Flynn Finesse sat on a rotting hardback booth, their elbows upon the warped table and shoulders rounded. Although their attention should have been on the unappetizing platter that was situated before them, their peripheral vision was sharpened tenfold and their reflexes set to reach for their weapons at a moment's notice.

Angel sat down her repulsive-excuse for silverware and straightened her back against the booth, her hand going lightly to her revolver in her trouser waist. Her eyes warily turned out as she panned the tavern that was alive with shadows, the only light that of the few flickering blazes encased in smeared glass. The fire played upon the dark, hardened faces of the characters that were situated in the bar. And although Sayler and her brother seemed to have some tacit agreement, she could not halt the shudder that wrought its way down her backbone.

"Flynn," she said under her breath, as he raised his head in the process of chewing his food. "Of all the places in Midtown, why in the hell do we have to come here?"

Flynn's eyes did a round of the shady room before he absentmindedly shrugged, though not being able to ward off the uneasiness that resided in the back of his mind. "Because, Ang, all the other guys from Midtown come here…"

She locked gazes with him, her eyes burning. "You mean you actually have a preference to being in a room full of Oliver's boys?"

Flynn nearly choked on the fatty slice of beef he had been consuming as a red stain lit up his cheeks. "I know it's a bad place, but you have your reputation and your revolver as a back-up."

Angel slightly slouched in the booth as she scanned the fear-inducing patrons once more. She would have bet her life on it that save the group of Midtown boys that usually took occupation in the tavern-though were absent at the moment-the rest of the customers had probably each carried out at least one murder and handled an array of hidden weapons in the innumerable fold of their clothing. "Yeah," she murmured, "but I'd just like to eat a meal in peace without a murder taking place. Why can't there be a place like Tibby's in Midtown. You remember Tibby's, don'tcha, Flynn?"

He nodded thoughtfully as he gagged and spit the semi-chewed food back onto his plate. "Yeah, we went there after we whacked off that one Manhattan boy. Sure as hell at least had decent food there. Christ, I don't even want to know where they got this shit from."

Angel had to suppress a laugh as she regarded the slimy matter on Flynn's plate.

A smile played upon the corner's of Flynn's lips as he took lead. "I mean, it looks like something that would come out of Nero's nose, not something that you would eat!"

She had to press a hand to her mouth to stifle her laughter. He continued for a few moments more with the comparisons of the unappetizing food and that of the unappetizing Nero Night. It was when she had slid so far down in the booth that her brow was nearly touching the edge of the table and the first tear had made its way loose, that she couldn't contain the howls any longer. A long, loud gale of laughter made its way lazily through the bar, touching each patron's ear ever so slowly until all noise had abruptly died and every eye was upon the pair in the corner.

Angel immediately sucked in a breath, her idiotic laughter suddenly being annihilated. Her gray eyes grew in size and soon were glazed over in their usual cold demeanor as she sat erect in the booth once more. It seemed to have the opposite effect on Flynn, for his shoulders rounded and his eyes fell to his plate as he reluctantly thrust the slice of beef in question into his mouth, desperately trying not to spill his guts as he swallowed the infernal thing.

Angel sat, her gaze flickering across the patron's visages, her insides still feeling the aftershock of the rapid jolt of fear. Slowly, the burning eyes were lowered from them and to the appropriate mugs of beer.

They both released a sigh simultaneously as their eyes met. A message could be read between them that needn't be spoken aloud: Let's get the hell out of here. And together they rose, their hands falling to the hilts of their weapons as they left their unfinished meals. Flynn took the lead, winding his way throughout the booths shrouded in shadows, his eyes locked on the rectangle of bright light that fell through the cracks of the door. Angel followed behind him, her clammy hand gripped unnaturally hard upon the base of her revolver. She caught the eye of Terrence Sayler as she left, his leathery face cold and hunting, as he stood behind the bar counter, wiping the inside of a glass clean with a cloth.

She shifted her gaze to fall only upon the back of Flynn's head, trying not to notice the panic that even she was feeling building inside her. The door drew closer, though it seemed like an endeavor that would take a lifetime just to reach the doorway. It was only when they were near to the door that Angel felt the hand reach out and plant a firm hold on her left lower hip.

She immediately released a soft cry and turned, drawing her revolver in a panic-stricken manner. The cold black eyes of a repulsive looking man stared back at her. She cringed in spite of herself. She could see a lust that hadn't been fulfilled in quite some time haunt his dark irises, along with the sense of the unspeakable crimes he had committed in all his years: murder, rape, and only God else knew what.

He remained undeterred by the weapon that was thoughtlessly pointed at his skull, and only continued to stare at her with his sickening, hungry eyes.

"Get your hand off her," Angel heard Flynn growl behind her, which was soon followed by the unmistakable clicking of the trigger of his revolver.

Yet, she was held somewhat spellbound by those hard eyes. She wondered if Oliver would have eyes like that when he got older. If Flynn would have eyes like that-if she would have eyes like that-

His grip lowered to her thigh and dug into her flesh, as he opened his mouth a released a hiss of lust not unlike the serpent trying to lure Eve. It was at this that Angel's thoughts were shattered and her mind cleared. A cold hatred clouded over her vision as her eyes narrowed into slits. "He said to get your fucking hand off me," she said in a low, detached voice as she cocked and pulled the trigger.

The serpent-man did not even know what struck him. The bullet drove itself through his head and out the other side, taking along with it the liberty of splashing the surrounding area with bits of brain and bone. The man, his mouth a gap and his black eyes waxed, fell forward out of his chair. Angel stepped back as so he did not touch the tips of her boots. She looked down at him with a remorseless demeanor, not feeling any emotions whatsoever as she watched the deep red blood rush out of the wound and start to pool around his head.

She stepped back as not to stain her boots.

She then cast her gaze upwards, placing the weapon once more in its rightful place within the band of her trousers. She wiped the back of her palm against her forehead, unknowingly smearing blood across her brow. The slaying retained no shock value amongst the patrons whatsoever. It would have been deemed an unusual day if someone hadn't been killed.

Angel felt Flynn thumb her on the shoulder, and she turned, but not without taking one last gaze at the unfeeling customers. God help her that Flynn was right. That she would escape from the dark shadows of Midtown and not spend her days as a patron of the Hideaway Tavern.

Flynn pushed open the door, and the sinking, but none the less bright sun met them both. It was a relief from the darkened world of that tavern. Even though, the shadows of the Hideaway seemed to transcend to even outside. The sun and its brilliant light were seen as an intruder to Oliver Haddox's world, a world of darkness and deceit.

They both stepped off the stoop to the tavern and took a soft right, their strides in unison and their swinging arms occasionally brushing. Although twilight would be approaching soon, the humidity of the smoldering summer they were experiencing was still quite apparent by the way the beads of perspiration that found their way to the flesh.

They walked in silence for quite some time, before Flynn broke it. "Angel- "

Yet, she interrupted him. "Flynn, I know what you're going to say. I should have never told you anything because I don't want your pity. I'm not going soft and I had no qualms whatsoever about whacking that bastard off. I didn't feel any emotions-I didn't feel anything-"

There was silence on Flynn's behalf before he replied. "Angel, all I was going to ask is why in the hell is Halloran running towards us?"

This revelation took Angel by surprise and she halted abruptly, only being able to elicit a bewildered, "Huh?"

Through her squinted vision, she could indeed discern Hal Halloran running towards them. His gait was awkward, as he was rather heavy set and it appeared even from this distance that he was having a hell of a time running, especially under the breathless sun.

She cocked her head and watched in slight amazement as Halloran approached them, his stubby arms waving about, and the fat that rippled hypnotically on his body.

"Well, I'll be damned," Flynn whistled under his breath, as though taken aback at Halloran performing the feat of running.

She allowed her eyes to flicker slightly to Flynn before returning to Halloran. "Yeah, but why the hell do you think he's running?"

Flynn only shrugged as a smirk lit up his golden features. "Don't know, but let's ask him." He cupped his hands around his mouth and incremented the loudness of his voice. "Hey, Halloran, where's the marathon at?"

Halloran finally reached them, his broad shoulders hunched and his breathing coming out in great puffs. Angel was afraid that he was going to die from breathlessness before them. "Very-very funny, guys," he huffed in his comically falsetto voice, his chest heaving and his face as red and raw as the Devil's hide and dripping with perspiration.

Angel crinkled her nose in disgust at the repulsive body odor that Halloran was emitting. It didn't help any more that his shirt was damp with sweat.

"Trying to exercise more so that you'll win the eye of Ruby, Halloran?" Flynn chortled as he punched Halloran's shoulder.

Halloran was silent, as he was doubled over, trying futilely to collect his lost breath once again. He finally drew in a large sum of air, as he stood erect. "No," he replied, his words broken, "Oliver's looking for ya."

Immediately, a shadow crossed over both Angel and Flynn's features.

She stepped forward, her eyes narrowed. "Halloran, what does he want?"

"I, I don't know," the large newsie wheezed. "Said he was looking for you and Flynn right away. He looked pretty angry and no one else was at the warehouse so he sent me to find you…Man, am I glad I found you."

Angel felt her impatience strike her temper as she drew closer to Halloran. "That's not what I asked, Halloran. I asked what in the name of Jesus Christ our Savior my brother wants?" she inquired heatedly.

Halloran's hazel eyes waxed as he rapidly shook his head. "I don't know, Angel, I don't know-he just seemed really angry and in that mood-"

"Oh, Christ!" Angel cried, pressing a palm to her forehead. A searing pain had suddenly formed between her eyes, worse than the hangovers the effects of the cheap gin that was uncorked after an assassination had upon her. She lowered her hand and glanced at Flynn, not noticing that smears of sticky crimson blood stained her fingers.

Just by reading his emerald eyes, she knew that his emotions were reciprocated of hers. They were going to have to spend another long and sleepless night tracking some newsie who had wronged Oliver. He never called upon them otherwise.

She released an exhausted sigh followed by a string of fabulous oaths.

"Come on, Angel," Flynn said, his jovial moos dashed.

Angel wearily nodded and turned to Halloran's direction. "Thanks, Hal, you done good."

Halloran opened his plump mouth, poised to reply, yet the pair had already taken off down the road at a breakneck speed in their stealth gaits despite the smoldering sun above. They were silent the rest of the sojourn to the warehouse, save for their deep breaths as they pumped their agile limbs on faster and faster. When they finally reached the haven of the Midtown newsboys, they did not partake in the luxury of halting and collecting their breath. They knew only an idiot would have kept Oliver Haddox waiting at a time like this. They knew of his explosive temper and it would have to be a bout of his rage at its worse to send Hal Halloran running for them. Someone must have wronged him in some unspeakable way. Unless…

Angel felt a pit being to develop in the wells of her stomach as she followed Flynn as he dashed through the front doors and up the first flight of stairs to the second floor. Unless his notoriously fiery temper had been set off by Brooklyn.

"Oh, God," she whispered under her breath. They had been thundering down the straightaway hallway of the second floor, and unbeknownst to Angel, Flynn had halted just outside the threshold to Oliver's room. This gesture caused her to slam full-force into his back, forcing him to lose his balance and nearly tumble to the floor.

"Where in the hell have you been?" Oliver's unmistakably caustic voice sliced through the humidity of the warehouse. "I had to send Halloran after you, for Chrissakes."

Angel and Flynn quickly rose, their eyes falling to the speaker. She was not the least bit surprised to see him seated on a rickety wooden chair and a female down on her knees in front of him, performing oral sex on him amidst her gut-wrenching sobs. It was not an unusual act, indeed. Oliver always had his steady flow of girls due to the fact that if one of the newsies he sent either Angel or Flynn to assassinate had a pretty little sister, their life would be spared if she came back to the warehouse and stayed the day in his room. Of course, many of his victims' lives had been spared because of their compliance.

"We were at the Hideaway," Flynn replied, his countenance serious.

The girl released a dreadful sob and fell back on her knees. "I can't do this! I can't do this!"

Fluidly, Oliver drew a pistol and placed one hand atop her pate as he drew her head closer to him. Pressing the barrel to her forehead, he said in a mockingly cruel voice, "Can you do it with a bullet in your brain, you bitch?"

The girl released a terror-stricken sob and cast her pleading eyes to Angel. Angel shifted her eyes away, not wanting and not able to stare into those wildly haunting eyes. The girl was soon back to her revolting task as Oliver continued, "Good little whore. Finesse, Angel, I have another task to you."

Angel averted her eyes from the spider that was crawling up the crumbling wall to her brother, as she stepped forward in protest. "Again? Oliver, we just knocked the kid from the Bronx last night! I haven't slept at night for two years straight. Flynn can't even sell his papes because he's so damn tired. Can't-"

Yet, her words died on her tongue as she saw the murderous glitter her brother's dark eyes took on. "Whine and bitch, whine and bitch, that's all you do, Angel," he growled. "You're assassins. You're my assassins. It's your goddamn duty to kill who I want when I want no ifs, ands, or buts. And Finesse doesn't need to sell papes. You're plenty well provided for the jobs you do." He stopped and caught her dangerous storm-gray eyes, a malicious smirk slithering up his lips. "Or maybe Nero's right, Ang. Maybe you are going soft. Little bastard would like to have his hand at killing- "

Oliver knew he that had proved his point by the coldness Angel's features took on and as her hand went harshly for her revolver. "Who was it?" she sibilated.

He sat back in the antediluvian chair. "Spot's boys. Sons of bitches were out of their turf. Looked at me the wrong way." His voice lowered an octave. "I hate when people look at me that way." His deadly glare flickered between Angel as she stood rigid before him and Flynn as he leaned in the doorway. "I want them dead. Tonight."

Angel cocked a brow as she regarded him defiantly. Her temper had gotten the best of her, blinding her better judgment as to argue with her brother. "Don't worry, Oliver. The job will be done."

"Good," Oliver replied, placing more pressure on the barrel on the girl's forehead as she reluctantly strove to give him more pleasure from the act.

Angel turned sharply on her heel and brutally brushed past Flynn in all her infuriation, yet she was abruptly halted as she heard him say, "Say, Oliver, isn't tonight the night of that big poker party that Spot is throwing?"

Her eyes waxed as she spun around, to regard Oliver in utter disbelief as he pondered this statement. "Why, yes, Flynn, I do believe it is."

Angel felt the atrocious pain in the front of her skull return with a vengeance. "Christ, Oliver," she choked, unable to believe her own words, "you want us to go knock off two of Spot's boys in the middle of one of his big poker parties?"

Oliver lazily cocked a brow. "I don't see why not, Angel. Party or no party. I want the job done."

"But, Oliver!" she cried, her voice high. "How the hell do you expect us to get in there without them recognizing us! I mean, we'll look too suspicious and they know what we look like! They'll know who we are. It's like going into the eye of the storm-"

"Then wear disguises," Oliver off-handedly commented as the girl at his knees released a wretched sob.

"Disguises?" she retorted incredulously.

"Go borrow a dress from one of the whores at the brothel. Tell them I sent you," he listlessly replied. The girl had once more fallen back on her knees and was in hysterics, pleading with Oliver to allow her to stop. He simply grew disgusted with her and without second thought pulled the trigger of his pistol, sending a bullet into her skull.

She fell backwards, much like Angel's victim had fallen forward an hour previously. The deep-hued blood stained her dark brown curls as it seeped out of the gaping wound in her forehead. Her pale pink dress was now stained also; it had been ripped before from a struggle with Oliver and in a manner that her breasts were exposed.

Angel turned, sickened, and quickly strode out the door, brushing past Flynn. She was in the hallway as she heard him reassure Oliver that his wishes would indeed be done. She was a quarter of the way up the second flight of stairs when she felt a heavy hand on her shoulder and Flynn harshly spin her around. His green eyes were glittering violently. "What the hell was that all about?" he hissed.

Angel read his eyes as she felt an alien sadness was over her. Her conscious spoke on her behalf, "Oliver's lost it. Completely lost it!" she exclaimed before she turned and thundered up the remaining steps, slamming the door with a passion so that Flynn was left outside, pounding upon the beaten plank of wood and pleading for egress.

Angel only flew across the third floor, the wooden floorboard protesting loudly under her weight as she halted at a warped bureau. Pulling open the top drawer with such fever that it fell to the ground, the miscellaneous trinkets spilling to the floor from the shock, she fell to her haunches, sifting through them until she found the rosary. Clutching the sacred object within an impossibly tight grasp, she fell to her forsaken mattress and closed her eyes tight.

Angel Haddox prayed for her soul. Perhaps she knew that when she died she would be sentenced to a lifetime in Hell, yet she still prayed to the Lord for her immortal soul.


	5. Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

The sun had retired making way for a clear, breathless night. A still humidity, a residue of the smoldering morning, combined with the light zephyrs that danced across the sky, producing an ethereal feeling. One such zephyr breezed down low, slithering between Angel Haddox's legs, causing her multitude of skirts to rise above her head and reveal the revolver pinned down by the black garter on her right upper-thigh.

She released a wrathful sibilation as she tried in vain to push the skirts to their rightful place. This action elicited a quiet, low laugh from Flynn as he strode next to her, his arms swinging carelessly at his side. Holding the great heaps of garments still with stiff arms, she cast him a sharp glare. "Do you find something in this amusing?"

He only shook his head as he trained his eyes forward once more. "Nothing, it's just that with that dress on, Haddox, you almost look like a lady."

She released a disgusted noise, fussing with the skirts as though she was about to tear them down the seams. "Wow, Flynn, you're such a comedian. It wasn't my idea to wear these goddamn mother-whoring cloths. It was all Oliver's idea."

Flynn gathered saliva in his mouth with the accompanying noise before spiting on the cobblestones. "And it was actually a good one, Angel. Better to show up dressed as a whore than dressed like one of the boys. It'll make the plan go more smoothly."

Angel cast him a dark, insolent stare. "Thanks for the flattery, Flynn."

He halted, stopping her abruptly by placing a constrictive grasp on her upper arm. His green eyes glittered with supreme seriousness. "I'm not joking, Haddox. Do you understand where we are going? What we are doing? We're going into the hornets' nest and are gonna kill two of their good old boys right under their noses. Do you understand what will happen if we fuck this up?"

She stood silent and in a somewhat state of awe of Flynn Finesse. It was no wonder that her brother treasured his trade so much. Flynn carried out what he was commanded of without a second notion.

She slowly nodded in agreement. "I understand but it doesn't mean that I agree."

His eyes shone like cold shards of glass. "You're an assassin, Angel, you don't get that choice."

Flynn then strode off, his steps far apart. Angel dashed to catch him, finally matching his strides. "Like you don't give a damn! Wasn't it you just this afternoon that was saying that you get your emotions into it?"

He flushed and looked somewhat pained, as though she had touched an exposed nerve. "So I was, Angel. So what are you going to do about it?"

A light breeze filtered through the air once more, causing her skirts and loose strands of hair to flutter about. "You can't agree with him, though. I agreed with him when we weren't on the truce and they had their assassins after our boys. Then I got something out of it. Then at least got some sort of satisfaction. But now-it's not that I'm losing my touch, but I'm worried about my life. You know as well as I that this truce is a crock of bullshit. At least Conlon is holding up his side of the deal. But Oliver…kill them just because they glanced at him the wrong way? He's going to get us all killed in the end."

There was a deep, thoughtful silence between them, the only sound that filled their ears the slight howl of the wind. Flynn slowly turned his head from some structure in the dark distance to Angel, her eyes unusually piercing under the charcoal the whores had smudged around them. A dim smile lit up his tired features. "Haddox, you think too damn much. How you ever got into this business is beyond me. Don't go thinking on me now. We have to do what we came here to do because Oliver told us too, no ifs, ands, or buts." He made a motion with his head. "The lodging house is just up ahead there. You have to be on your guard. And you have to remember the plan. You remember the plan don't you?"

Although Angel shook her head in compliance, Flynn took the liberty of discussing it once more. Though, she did not take heed. She was too busy squinting her eyes, trying to discern the infamous Brooklyn lodging house throughout the shroud of darkness. Although it was not visible to her eyes, just the notion of it was cause enough to feel as though a tornado were ripping apart her innards. She of course had been under the looming shadow of the structure as the sun was setting many times before, her only company Flynn, Nero, and the piercing sound of a bullet as her latest victim fell lifeless to the ground. Yet, she had never stepped foot inside of it. It chilled her blood to even think of what would occur if she and Flynn would be recognized, especially since they both had their revolvers on hand. She fancied that Conlon would have no qualms of ending their lives right there and then in front of all his intoxicated newsies.

"Haddox, you still with me?"

Flynn shattered her thoughts. She quickly turned her head to find his intense eyes upon her and his hands cupped over his mouth, lighting a cigarette. She listlessly nodded her head, her gaze flickering once more to the direction of the lodging house and returning to Flynn. He tossed the match to the ground and inhaled on the cigarette, his glance observing her, as though waiting for a reply.

And for the first time, in a long time, Angel Haddox felt real fear. It manifested itself as a cold shroud covering her heart. Her hand unwittingly dropped to her side and felt for the revolver through the thick skirts. She damned herself for feeling this alien emotion, willing herself to feel the nothingness she had previously that day as she had placed a bullet in the head of the man at The Hideaway.

Her eyes fell to Flynn's and she wished to tell him that Oliver had finally gone insane and that they were going to end with their brains blown out rather than those they were to target. Yet, Flynn's green eyes looked all too cool as he exhaled and the smoke swirled from his mouth and disappeared into the clear night. He would not give an ear to any of her sniveling. This would only give him cause to tell Oliver that she truly had lost her nerve, that she was of no assistance to him and now the only profession she could succeed at was that of a whore.

So, instead, she betrayed her quaking heart and cocked an insolent brow, plucking the smoking cigarette from her accomplice's lips and placing it between hers, deeply inhaling.

"Well, what are you waiting for, Finesse? Let's go."

***

The plan had flowed from Flynn's silver tongue as though it would be remarkably easy.

He had taken Oliver's offer in Angel's borrowing of a dress from the whores at the brothel that the former regularly attended. Angel had been guided through the process of dressing to lure men by Oliver's favorite little tart, Dominiquette, as she had restlessly twirled her loaded weapon upon her index finger. She had been suited into a fantastically constrictive corset, over which a blood-red dress had been placed. And through much fussing, her flaxen hair had been brushed out and her features accented with deep cosmetics. After Dominiquette had finished, Angel did not trust herself to regard her appearance in the full-length looking glass, and instead flipped up her skirt and safely tucked the revolver within her garter.

Flynn had then met her outside the brothel with his bright hair tucked under a cap that was pulled low over his brow. Angel had darkly reckoned that she resembled a scarlet-woman on the arm of her customer, yet Flynn had merely brushed her off and relayed to her the closure of the scheme as they traveled to Brooklyn.

Angel now stood, the butt of cigarette quivering slightly between her lips as she regarded the Brooklyn Newsboys Lodging House. She and Flynn were still situated within a patch of shadows, undetectable to anyone in the lodging house.

He pulled on her elbow, bringing his mouth close to her ear, as her eyes stayed fixated to the quarters of her brother's arch nemesis. "You can't forget the plan, Angel, you must remember it," he said heatedly, his breath hot within her ear canal. "Remember, you'll go in before me. After a few minutes, I'll go in. Remember, you don't know me. If you see me, glance away. We can't have any suspicions drawn to us. Look for both of them. Once you find them, do everything in your power to get them outside. They'll most likely be taking back drinks and will be drunk, so it may be easy. But don't take any yourself. You have to have your wits about you. Once you get them outside, lure them a few hundred yards away from the lodging house, preferably on the pier so we can just dump the bodies in the river. I'll be watching you, so don't watch for me. I'll come and join you. Then we knock them off and get out of here. We can't take no chances. None at all."

When she did not reply, he hissed roughly in her ear, "Do you have your gun?"

Angel's reverie was broken as she blinked, feeling his warm breath upon her cheek. She pulled away from his grasp, her steel eyes finding his. "Don't I always?"

Flynn elicited a sigh, gripping her shoulder slightly. "Good, Angel. I hope you understand what your brother has us getting into. How goddamn serious this is. If you slip up and give them a clue who you are, they'll kill you without a second thought."

Angel felt a superb shutter wrought its way down her spine as she glanced at the lodging house.

"Just stick to what I told you, Haddox, and you'll be fine. If you get asked who you are, lie through your teeth and make up some bullshit story. Say nothing about Midtown and nothing about me." He released his hold on her. "And no matter what you do, stay away from Spot Conlon. Even though you may fool his boys, you won't be able to fool him."

Flynn lowered his spread palms to her lower back and gave Angel a hearty shove, sending her, disoriented, out of the shadows and in full sight of those around. She doubled over, yet caught her balance in time from tumbling to the ground.

"Good luck, Angel of Death!" she heard Flynn hiss behind her. She raised herself, brushing tangles of hair out of her face, and turned over her shoulder to regard him with narrowed eyes. Yet, the amusement drained from Flynn's features and his eyes flashed as he brutally mouthed to her, Don't look at me!

His reaction took her aback, and she quickly trained her head forward once more, slowly striding ahead. Flynn Finesse was soon all but a whisper of memory as she beheld with fear and wonderment the site before her. In the daylight, the lodging house could be mistaken for an ordinary, antediluvian eyesore, what with the three stories that appeared miraculous that they did not collapse upon one another, the warp the unhappy porch had taken on over time, and the chipped stenciling in black paint that proclaimed Brooklyn Newsboys Lodging House. Yet, at night and armed with the knowledge that the infamous Spot Conlon and his band of newsies resided here, one could not but help have their breath taken away.

The structure resembled a living entity itself, presenting all the fear and passion as its leader did. Bright light streamed from the spider-wed laced windows, illuminating the nearby night sky. Boisterous, audible racket resounded outside over the minute sounds of what sounded like that of a pitiful, makeshift band: harmonica, fiddle, and clicker. She watched as the silhouettes of figures mulled about from window to window, each one presumably carting either a bottle, flask, or cup filled to the brim with alcohol. Many littered the porch or the surrounding areas. As she made her way to the porch steps, her eyes darted about, taking in the couples that unabashedly relished in the throes of passion. There were those few that had initiated their own private poker games, undeterred by the intoxicated laughter and screams of pleasure that pierced the air.

As she climbed the steps, her uneasiness forgotten for a moment as she watched what was nonetheless a Brooklyn newsie flip the skirt of his inebriated companion over her head, she suddenly felt a clammy hand take a strong clutch on her left ankle. Involuntarily, she released a sharp noise and roughly flicked her foot in attempt to free her captive ankle. Though, the grip only became harder. She cast her stormy gaze down to see a newsie lounging on the steps on his back. He was obviously drunk, for in his other hand he held a wobbling bottle of rum. To further back her hypothesis, his green eyes never quite focused on one point, and the tip of his nose was as bright red as his thatch of hair.

On impulse, Angel's hand reached to her waist prepared to grab her revolver and end his life then and there. Yet, as she realized that she was not wearing trousers and to access her gun she would have to raise her skirt, reality donned upon her. If she were to kill him, suspicions would be drawn to her and Flynn's whole plan would be shot to hell, perhaps along with their lives.

So, instead she rearranged her expression into one of supreme mortal hate and roughly shook her foot. "Get your hand off my foot, now," she spat.

Though, this did not have the desired effect upon the newsie, for he only rolled to his stomach, his grin and eyes growing wider, as his grip became firmer.

"You're not going to agree, are you?" she sighed.

He idiotically shook his head, and now pulled down on her ankle, as though she would allow him the liberty of flipping her skirt over her head as their exhibitionist neighbors had done so.

In response, Angel brought her free foot back before connecting it with the newsie's face and smashing his nose with Dominiquette's borrowed heels. He released an agonizing howl of pain as he immediately emancipated her ankle, bringing both hands to the bloody mess and curling into a fetal position.

This action caused quite a few pairs of eyes to be directed towards her, and Angel felt a glimmer of coldness slide down her backbone. Tilting her angle of vision down, she quickly passed from the porch and through the threshold, now entering the lodging house. To her left, she saw the room that was the center of commotion, the parlor most likely. A slew of newsies was huddled in a circle in one corner, their eyes wide and cheers loud. It was most likely the table where the official game of poker was partaking in. A roaring shout arose from the boys, causing the girls that stood near them to appear more sullen for they most likely wished to have their newsie in a dark corner rather than be engrossed by a silly poker game.

In an adjacent corner was where the measly band played, amateurs who were intoxicated newsies performing a dismal hidden-talent. To the band's right was situated the barrels of alcohol. One fellow was on his back under the knob of one of the barrels, with the booze flowing into his mouth while the nearby crowd whistled and cheered him on.

Past the couples that were entwined around each other and straight ahead of Angel was a flight of stairs of course littered with glitter-shot bottles of beer and more garments flipped over heads.

As Angel stood within the doorway, partygoers sifting past her, her reason for attendance was almost oblivious to her. It was only when she saw the undeniable figure of Flynn slip through the doorway, his face and shock of bright hair undetectable by his cap, that she realized that she was here on a mission. Her eyes lingered on Flynn, and he briefly met them before he disappeared behind a laughing crowd that was exiting the lodging house.

She shook her head and twined a set of fingers through her hair. She had been sent here by her brother, to the residence of the one he hated most on the face of the earth, to slay two of his newsies. The idiocy in the whole notion sprung a slight laugh from her lips. She raised her eyes and panned the room, finding a morbid sense of amusement that here she was, native of Midtown and sister to Oliver Haddox, in the heart of Spot Conlon's territory, surrounded by his own.

Truce or no truce, she knew, they would have no problems whatsoever with pointing her own murderous revolver at her temple and blowing her brains out.

As she tried to clear her mind, to think of the descriptions of the two that Flynn had told her, Angel felt a hand snake around her from behind before resting on her lower torso. She could feel whomever it was pressing against her back, his hot breath invading her ear. "Hey, baby, I'm broke so tell me now if you charge any rates."

He pressed Angel closer to him, as her countenance twisted into repulsion. Dominiquette's mission sure the hell had been attained: the general populous now rendered Angel Haddox a whore. For the second time that night, Angel had to will herself not to reach for her gun. Instead, she drew in a deep breath, and turned around. Alas, the expression she deemed sultry that had plastered her face now turned into one of complete and utter shock. It was the face, the newsie's face that left her breathless. A hideous scar ran from his left lower cheek diagonally across the bridge of his nose before ending in the middle of his brow above the right eye.

Flynn's words from the sojourn to Brooklyn earlier streamed through her brain. On one of Conlon's boys that she was to assassinate, Oliver had claimed that he had a large scar adorning his face. Her eyes traced the path of the scar over and over, as she deemed this stroke of fate too good be true. Yet, there it was, in all its wretchedness. Perhaps if she could seduce him and his companion in time she and Flynn would be back to Midtown by sunrise.

The thought purposed a smile to her lips as she gazed into his watery blue eyes. One of her hands found its way to his muscular chest, the other the right side of his face as she traced the scar with her thumb. "Oh, I wouldn't dream of charging you anything." Her voice dropped an octave. "It would be my pleasure."

The scar was raised as he pulled his lips back in a drunken smile, his hands unabashedly roaming her body. "Good. Charley Cicatrice has yet to pay for a slut yet."

It was when Cicatrice's hand passed over the bump on her right thigh that was the revolver that Angel felt a surge of hatred build up inside of her. And to think that she had had reservations of assassinating the two that had looked at her brother the wrong way. It would give her nothing but the utmost pleasure to watch a bullet lodge itself in his head.

A forced coy smile crossed her lips. "Well I wouldn't want to be the one to break that record, now would I?"

His eyes were vacant as he regarded her. "Hey, have some booze," he said, forcing the cup at her so that the alcohol splashed upon her exposed flesh in the low-cut dress. Angel involuntarily reeled back in disgust as Cicatrice bent and pressed his tongue to her skin, licking away the drink. During this motion, her hand went up her skirt and firmly held the base of the revolver, poised to skip the step of luring him outside before killing him. Yet, before she could reveal the weapon, Cicatrice had straightened and turned over his shoulder, calling to an acquaintance.

Angel took these brief moments to bottle her rage and reluctantly release the hilt, allowing her arms to fall lax to her sides.

"Hey, Flick, get over here!" Cicatrice bellowed over the audible noise, motioning with his hand.

Angel was taken aback once more to find the newsie that had joined them was nonetheless the one whom had grasped her ankle as she had tried to enter the lodging house. He approached them and stood next to Cicatrice, obviously disoriented and his nose shattered, the fresh blood that was not congealed glittering prismatically in the light.

"Heya, Charley," Flick replied, his voice cracking and weary, his gaze still unfocused.

"Hey, Flick," Cicatrice implored, lowering his head somewhat towards Flick's. "What the hell happened to your face?"

Flick shook his head in the negative, his green eyes slightly lolling around in his head. "I don't know." His eyes suddenly waxed. "Hey, maybe it was Oliver sent one of his guys on me."

Cicatrice shared in his friend's expression as Angel felt a pit manifest itself within her stomach. So these were the two that had wronged Oliver, had only glanced at him the wrong way. They matched the descriptions that Flynn had informed her of immaculately, and here one of them had mentioned Oliver's namesake. They were standing before her now, breathing and drunk, yet she could only picture them lying sprawled and lifeless on the docks under the full moon, with deep crimson blood trickling from the quarter- sized wounds that would be inflicted to their heads.

She winced as she regarded them. Though they were Brooklyn, though she had been learned and conditioned to hate and despise them beyond all else, she could not but feel a stab of an undetectable emotion upon her heart, watching them so stupidly and drunkenly debate how one had obtained his broken nose.

Angel's hand slipped down to her leg and grasped the revolver through her skirts. And that damned word slipped into her mind again: conscience. At that delirious moment, she was in her right mind to turn from the pair and exit more than the lodging house but that of Angel Haddox and the dark and tormented world that was her life as she knew it. Yet, that foolish dream was shattered as she turned her eyes up and over the shoulders of the condemned; she espied Flynn skulking against the back wall. Even though a shadow shrouded his face, she still knew that his jade eyes were burning into her, telling her that if she would wish to finally lose her nerve, not to do it in the headquarters of goddamn Brooklyn and Spot Conlon.

So, she lowered her eyes and though she felt she could disgorge her guts at their feet, she forced a smile upon her lips and pulled Cicatrice close, whispering illicit nothings into his ear as she could feel the arousal burn off him like fire.

She did not make eye contact with Flynn as she led the two out the door, morbidly as though leading them to their death. She knew he was still positioned near the door, though she need not look at him. Once she had left, he would follow her in the same manner of a shadow.  
The night air was refreshingly cool and cold stars prominent in the black sky above. Angel carefully stepped over those that were entwined around each other on the stairs, the revolver feeling strikingly heavy against her upper leg. She inhaled in the cool air, desperately trying to sustain herself from ripping into twain.

Angel turned over her shoulder, an eyebrow cocked as a breeze fluttered her skirts and strands of hair, observing the pair as they stumbled off the porch and to the sidewalk. "I hope you two aren't this slow at everything you do!" she called, her voice deceivingly smoky.

In response, Cicatrice pushed Flick forward, raising his chin in defiance. "You just wait!" he slurred. "Hey, Flick, hurry the hell up. We don't want to keep her waiting!"

"I'm hurrying, I'm hurrying," Flick protested on his behalf.

As Flynn had ordered, Angel delivered the pair to the pier where nearly all their Brooklyn assassinations were carried out. The ebony water lapped rhythmically against the pier, acting as though a companion looking glass to the sky above as it reflected the waxing moon and brilliant stars. As though it was hungry, waiting impatiently for the cadavers that would soon be pushed into it.

Flick was stumbling about in a circle, though Cicatrice had his eyes trained upon Angel, burning with raw lust. He approached her as she stood near the edge of the dock, an animal grin upon his face, twisting his repulsive scar. He closed the distance between them and pressed his body against hers, his breath reeking that of volumes of alcohol harshly invading her nostrils. His hands made themselves free to explore all crevices of her body as he whispered huskily in her ear, "Wanted to be away from the crowd, eh?"

Angel felt a shutter work through her as she closed her eyes impossibly tight, awaiting now the arrival of her accomplice. Flynn made his appearance known a few moments later as Flick inquired in a scratchy voice, "Hey, who are you?"

Her eyes opened and Cicatrice backed away from her, turning over his shoulder to observe Flynn. Her breath bated in her throat as she took in Flynn's strong presence: his cap askew revealing a thatch of his bright hair that gleamed in the moonlight, his green eyes set in hate, and his revolver that was pointed point blank at Cicatrice's head. She never had noticed the murderous gleam in his eye before, perhaps she had been so blinded by the power she felt of wielding a weapon, about to take a life. It chilled her to the bone.

"Hey, who in the hell are you?" Cicatrice growled, his fists balling at his sides.

Flynn only ignored the question as he turned to Angel. "I thought I told you not to look at me."

"Forgive me, your majesty," she retorted as acidly as she could, trying to cover the shakiness of her voice as she slowly reached under her skirt and drew her revolver.

Flynn's eyes were on fire as he glared back at Angel, yet he only motioned with his head to Flick. "You take him, I'll take Scar-boy, and then we get the hell out of here."

Realization finally seemed to seep into Cicatrice for his jaw dropped. "Hey, just what do you think you're doing, now?"

Flynn cocked his head somewhat in the manner of a bird, his eyes glimmering with amusement. "Why, killing you, of course."

Angel felt the stunning pain begin to rage in between her eyes once more as she watched Flick as he blanched in his skin, realizing the barrel pointed at his brow was not just for show.

"On the count of three we do it." The gun began to quiver furiously in her grasp as she regarded Flick's green eyes widen in mortal terror.

"One-"

Flynn's trigger clicked as he cocked it.

"Two-"

She took his lead, the click filling her ears tenfold as she watched the utter atrocity before her that was a human being urinate in his trousers, his stark eyes unwavering from the gaping black hole of the barrel before him.

"Three-"

An audible, singular gunshot ruptured the still air, followed by the collapsing of a lifeless body to the docks. Angel still remained transfixed to Flick, as his saucer-like eyes drifted from her and to the heap on the dock that had been Charley Cicatrice. He released a whimper, taking in the heinous bullet hole that now adored the corpse's forehead; a perfect shot that showed the skill of a practiced assassin. As his eyes drew back to Angel's, his wild sobs pierced the air.

Flynn's delirious shouts echoed over the Brooklynite's hysterics. "What in the blue fuck do you think you are doing, Angel? Pull the fucking trigger!"

Yet, for the life of her, Angel Haddox could not will herself to pull the trigger of her revolver. She could only hold her arms out in front of her, the weapon still pointed at Flick's head, yet they were quaking so that the bullet would miss its prime target of the brain. "I can't do it, Flynn, I can't do it!"

"What the hell you mean you can't do it?" he replied his raging infuriation contained by the utter surprise he felt at her inability to pull the trigger.

Angel could not convert the overpowering, foreign emotions that consumed her into words for Flynn's comprehension. It was the part of her she had always yearned for yet never truly wanted for it would destroy all she had ever built: a conscience. She regarded the hysterical newsie in front of her as a human being and not as an animal. It made her ill to believe that she thought such ludicrous notions now.

To add insult to the wound that had been inflicted upon Flynn's skillful plan, a shout rang out from the direction of the lodging house, inquiring what that sound had been from a moment ago.

Flynn spied the silhouettes in the distance, and dashed over to Angel's side. "Pull the trigger!" he bellowed.

And then Angel broke. Her psyche with its two raging opinions had ripped itself in half and had drained her of all reason. "No!" she cried, her grip becoming lax and the revolver falling from her grasp as she sunk to her haunches in feeling like a complete and utter miserable failure. Alas, before her weapon had even struck the ground, Flynn expeditiously drew his revolver and shot Flick point blank in the head, ending his bone chilling sobs.

"Angel, get up!" he cried, his voice cracking. "Angel, you have to get up, someone's coming!"

And Angel Haddox rose blindly to her feet, and ran as though the Devil were on her heels, the overwhelming emotions finally overcoming her. She hadn't taken but a few strides when she felt herself being harshly halted, her arms gathered painfully tight behind her back, and the cold barrel of a gun pressed against the back of her skull.

She had been caught. Her thoughts went to her brother, went to Oliver, as she bitterly recalled her own words of how he was going to get them all killed in the end. How ironic it was: she had witnessed the faces of her victims in their last moments, wondered what had streamed through their heads.

How ironic indeed. She could not draw upon a single thing but the immortal terror she felt that her bloody trade had finally caught up with her. Her trivial prayers would not do anything to save her soul now.


	6. Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

Angel's breath was purloined from her by means of a wheeze, as the chilly barrel pushed her flaxen hair away to reach her scalp, and as gnawed fingernails dug themselves roughly into her forearms. Her knees buckled from under her, yet the firm grasp held her erect.

She felt a nose touch the tip of her ear, and hot breath fill her ear canal. "Angel, it's me."

The sandy voice was recognized at once as none other than Flynn Finesse's and she released a low sob, bending her knees as much as his firm grip on her would allow. Her head sank forward, the barrel no longer pressed against it. "Oh, Flynn, it's you. It's you."

He raised her to her feet with a sharp jolt, turning her towards him sharply. His eyes caught the moonlight, glittering vehemently. He still had not lowered the weapon.

Angel tilted her engorged eyes to the black hole that was the barrel in front of her. She felt the same sense of grim irony. Is this how the late Flick of Brooklyn had felt just a few moments prior? Her eyes locked to Flynn's. "Flynn, put that thing down will you?" she asked in a low quivering voice, almost on the edge of hysterical laughter out of sheer wreckage of nerves. He still did not lower the revolver. "Flynn, I don't know what happened! I don't know what came over me…don't know why I couldn't do it! Oh, God, Flynn please!"

She released a low sound of relief as he lowered the weapon. Yet, it was a jagged and painful exhalation as his eyes shone with repulsion. He cocked a brow as his strong hands emancipated her and tucked his revolver within the bands of his trousers. "Have you taken to bartering for your life like your victims, Angel?" he asked, his voice affecting her like a dagger to the heart.

She stepped back, regarding him, astonished, as he fell to his haunches and rolled the corpse of the fallen Charley Cicatrice on its stomach. He studied with satisfaction the gun-wound that was in the middle of the forehead; his spectacular aim was something he prided himself greatly in. His gaze flickered upward, and he did a double take on the miserable wretch that was garbed in Angel Haddox's skin. She stared at him, her skin as pale as the waxing moon above, save for the drops of splattered blood courtesy of the corpses that sullied it here and there. She was slacked-jawed and wide-eyed, the deep charcoal that the whore had lined her eyes with smeared due to damned tears. And in the process of retrieving her murderous weapon, her skirt had entangled itself in the garter, showing the sheathed blade she also carried. He snorted and rose again, releasing Cicatrice's cold, lifeless arm from his clutch.

"If you weren't going to shoot them, Angel, were you going to dismember them with your blade there afterwards?" Flynn motioned to the blade, feeling a twinge in his heart as she winced at his caustic words. Yet, he could not keep the bitterness out of his statements. When they did not slay together it was always she that committed the murders, fearless and high with the lust at the grisly acts she committed. It almost broke his heart in two to see her like this, a great mess, unable to recognize who she was or why she had reacted as she had.

"Goddamn you, Flynn," she whispered breathlessly, stepping back from him.

Flynn closed his eyes tightly and ran his hands through his hair in an act that knocked his cap to the ground. When he opened them, he found her staring unbelievingly at the cadaver of the redhead, resembling some fragile thing that was want to crack and shatter into a million shards at a moment's notice.

Her eyes shifted to his. "What are we going to do now?" she inquired in a low voice.

He sighed deeply, casting a gaze in the direction of the lodging house over his shoulder. The silhouettes he had seen must have been a false alarm. But there was no way in hell he was about to take his good old time arranging a proper burial complete with priest and blessing for the two he had slain. He returned his eyes to Angel. "I'm going to dump these two into the river and you're going to go back to the lodging house-"

Her cupid-bowed lips fell open. "Go back to the lodging house?" she cried incredulously.

His glare in her direction incremented as he controlled his rising temper. "Yes, since you haven't blown either of their brains out you are sinless and innocent and in turn can return to the party of your brother's nemesis." His sharp words had made their purpose known to her. "Go there and stay until I come back. Hopefully it won't be too long."

Angel cast a glance at the fallen once more, a shutter on the heels on nausea ripping through her. She turned, avoiding Flynn's burning stare, as she made her way once again to the Brooklyn lodging house, strolling as though in a dream. Flynn's acid voice halted her. "Do clean yourself up before you go in there. What's Conlon going to think when you show up with blood staining you? He'll kill you without second thought."

She turned slowly to find that Flynn had begun his habitual duties of preparing to feed the bodies to the hungry river. She then looked away, fighting wildly to suppress a sob, as she approached the lodging house. The hard and impenetrable façade of Oliver's hate that she had for so long relied on was beginning to crumble and crack, the tears slipping from the creases of her eyes and down her cheeks. Her clenched fingers rubbed relentlessly at her eyes, trying to rid of the infernal tears. The action only caused her vision to be blurred.

"What the hell just happened?" she whispered to herself as she raised her skirt, blindly cleansing the blood off her face as Flynn had instructed her to. Was she at this moment actually Angel Haddox? No, Angel Haddox would be down at the docks with Flynn, tossing the bodies into the lapping river and celebrating in the shadows afterwards while sharing a cheap bottle of gin with her accomplice. This was not Angel Haddox, an unrecognizable sobbing wreck taking commands from Flynn Finesse and actually swallowing them.

As the lodging house became closer, the drunken shouts became more audible and the glowing lights radiating from within brighter. She ran her hands through her pale hair, pressing her palms against her skull in disgust and trying to discern an answer to her insolent behavior. Alas, she could find none.

Angel felt light-headedness overcome her as she slowly climbed the steps to the porch, forgetting that just shy of an hour before hand the redhead had grasped her ankle there. Those that had been merrily participating in poker games or sex had now became too intoxicated by the flowing alcohol that they were either stone-cold unconscious or prattling and giggling gleefully.

She made her way past them and through the threshold, her breath shallow and erratic as she desperately brushed away the tears. Once inside the parlor, she halted and gazed about her. A lunatic notion crossed her mind a proposed a wild laugh from her lips. So, this was Brooklyn. Spot Conlon's world. Where the fearless leader and his terror-inducing newsies called home. Yet, how pathetic they all looked now. The table where the poker game had been taking place, the supposed reason for the throwing of this alcohol-drenched party, lay desolate and barren and strewn with cards. The makeshift band had long since broken up and, to Angel's slight amusement, the newsie who had been playing the clickers was passed out along with numerous others unconscious along the now-empty barrels that once contained the booze. How vulnerable the mighty

could be. It paralleled her current situation all too close for comfort.

She elicited a low sigh while gazing at the barrels. The sudden remembrance of her blade prompted her to fathom of slitting her own neck or other such limb to save her from the overwhelming sickness she felt at Oliver's discovery of what had happened to his most ruthless assassin.

Angel struggled brutally as not to disgorge the measly meal she had consumed at the Hideaway, and contented herself with the idea of getting beautifully drunk. That way, she would not have to face her brother or that little bastard Night tonight. That dark thought could wait until the next morning, when she would tango with her brother's fiery temper and pistol with a stunning hangover.

A grim smile danced on the corners of her lips at this notion, as she crossed the parlor and over to the barrels. She crouched down and tried one of the knobs, yet found that none of the sweet ambrosia ran from it. She cursed bitterly under her breath and looked around, finding most of the cups of the unconscious empty. Yet, a few feet away near the torso of a newsie deep in intoxicated slumber on his side, a glitter-shot bottle reflected the moonlight. Her eyes widened in delight as she fell to her hands and knees and crawled over the bodies, leaning over the newsie and grabbing the bottle. She pressed the tip to her lips and cocked her head back, allowing the liquor to flow down her dry throat and stream down her chin and onto her exposed flesh, though not nearly enough to quell her thirst. She brought the bottle down and released a belch, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

Though, the opening was soon to her lips once more.

Angel then rose to her feet, the bottle firmly in her clutches, and stole across the parlor, sifting through those of the conscious that still remained. It was the shadowed set of stairs across from the entrance to the lodging house that caught her attention. It was then that an incurable fit of curiosity overwhelmed her, and she was soon slowly making her way towards them, squinting her eyes in the darkness to discern what lie above. Perhaps it was the sheer amazement of being a native of Midtown and Oliver Haddox's sister at a party being thrown by Spot Conlon himself, and the actuality of being in Brooklyn headquarters, that she carefully ascended the stairs. The antediluvian boards creaked under her weight as though they were being diabolically murdered, and Angel eased her weight as she climbed, a rush of lusty excitement surging through her, akin to the lusty excitement that she experienced numerous times before taking the life of the ones her brother condemned.

She reached the second floor of the lodging house and stepped off of the stairs, now finding herself in a darkened hallway. Glancing down the directions of that of her left and right, the hallway was darkened, with only a dim light at the end to her left. Cautiously turning over her shoulder and down the hallway, she espied not a soul, and turned towards the queer light, her steps light against the floorboards.

Before reaching the termination of the hallway, she had passed a series of doors, some open and some shut, yet saw no one. The light radiated out of a small room at the end of the hall to the left. Angel pressed her back against the wall and cocked her head inside. Seeing the room deserted, she crept inside.

The quarters were quite small, not more than twelve paces in each direction. An ancient bunk bed was shoved into the right corner of the wall facing away from her. The upper bunk appeared to have been hastily made by the inhabitant, yet the measly bedding of the lower bunk was strewn about, the moth-worn sheets touching the dusty floor. A warped vanity containing a cracked mirror and too-large drawers was adjacent to the bunks and a grime- coated trunk sat at the foot of them. Across from the vanity and companion to the beds was a bowed desk that sat tilted on four legs, a small kerosene lamp positioned upon it illuminating the room. To complete the furniture, a rickety chair was pushed out from the desk.

Her eyes scanned the unusual grouping of possessions as she strolled listlessly around the room. It was when the fingers of her left hand were sliding across the back of the dust-laced chair as her others held the alcohol bottle to her lips, that she heard the voices.

"Yeah, and what the hell is that supposed to mean, Whitie?"

"Nothing, Boss, it's that do you really want to start something up if you don't know for certain if it was them?"

"You speak insolence, Wilson. I know it was the work of those dirty bastards. I know it was Haddox. You don't have to be a genius to figure that one out."

Angel felt her blood run cold within her veins. The voices were that of males, one of passion and the other of reason, and accompanied by heavy footsteps resonating from the hallway. She did not know what notion terrified her more: being caught by Brooklyn or the utterance of her brother's name.

Her pulse raced, as did her breathing, as she turned this way and that, her eyes darting about the room, trying to find a place to conceal herself. She hastily decided upon the trunk, and threw herself behind it, the splinters of the floorboards digging into her palms and causing her to clench a growl of pain. She contorted herself against the side of the trunk, her back ridged against one of the posts of the bunk bed.

Just as she had settled in her position, the thundering footsteps entered the room, stopping near the vanity.

"Just listen to me," the reasonable voice pleaded from the doorway. "We've been on a truce. Do you really want to get things started up again?"

Angel flinched as the male in the room brutally kicked the vanity, causing some of the cracked mirror shards to fall from where they had been set.

"You can't honestly look me in the face and tell me the shit he has been pulling is part of a truce. He sends assassins after my boys for Christ's sake! I've never done that unless provoked. So look me straight in the eye, Whitie Wilson, and tell me that Midtown and Brooklyn are on a truce."

The impassioned voice left the atmosphere heavy, and the second voice did not reply for some time. In this epoch of silence, Angel moved her backbone away from the bunk post to alleviate the jarring pain it resulted in, causing the dust around her to unsettle itself.

The voice in the doorway finally drew in a deep sigh. "No, but-"

As she was holding her breath, willing herself not to sneeze and give her concealment away, the door slammed suddenly shut with an audible bang, causing her to jump as a bolt of fright crossed over her. As her heart raced, she heard the scraping the chair's legs against the ground as the one with the passionate voice occupied it. Though, as she released her breath, she had tragically forgotten about the dust particles, and she soon found herself uttering the noises of an oncoming sneeze. Though try as she might to prevent it, she knew she could not contain it, and her mind issued forth blue curses to her as her audible sternutation ruptured the air.

Angel's eyes instinctively closed shut and her teeth clamped together as she awaited her inevitable discovery. The legs of the chair released a horrid noise once more, as they were scraped against the ground. She was waiting for some type of shout or exclamation, and was not prepared for the loud crash as the trunk was kicked away. Even before she could open her eyes and release a scream, the wind was knocked out of her as she was thrown against the wall, her body sprawled on the floor, and as a firm pressure was applied to her trachea.

She began to wheeze and gasp pathetically as her intake of air was murdered. The heavy pressure on her throat only became more dramatic.

"Who the hell are you and what the hell are you doing in my room?" the voice hissed, any trace of mercy or compassion absent.

Another choke escaped her lips as light-headedness began to consume her due to the lack of air supply to the brain. The base of her head now touching the meeting place of the wall and the floor, Angel wrenched open her eyes and what she viewed before caused her blood to curdle with the utmost fear.

The owner of the feverish voice had the sole of his right shoe pressed on her neck, pushing her chin up in a ridiculously painful position. Past the sullied tip of his black footwear was the unmistakable Y of a wooden slingshot, the elastic past pulled back to reveal a glimmering ebony marble positioned in between the eyes of the wielder. They glittered, cold and hard, as though alive with a blue fire. And as Angel studied his visage, it only took a matter of a moment to deem whom the possessor of those eyes was. The fair countenance that was twisted in rage, the strands of dirty blond hair that fell in front of the blue orbs, the lips twisted into a sneer. It had been a few years since she had actually laid eyes upon him, yet she could never forget his namesake.

Spot Conlon. The fearless leader of Brooklyn. The one her brother had taught his hatred of to her. And now here he stood, bent at the waist, a murderous gleam in his eyes and arms taut with a weapon that was meant to shatter her skull.

He reprised his query once more, yet Angel was strangled with fear so utterly intense that no sounds could will themselves from her lips. She could only ponder if those eyes would be the last sight she saw before the fires of hell consumed her soul.

In spite of her silence, he raised the tip of his shoe slightly, giving her leeway for speech. Angel took this gift by raising her head from the ground and issuing a string of coughs.

"I'm only going to ask you this one last time. Who in the hell are you?" he growled, pulling further back upon the slingshot.

Her steel-shaded eyes waxed as she shook her head as best possible. She was trying to form the words that jumbled themselves like a train wreck in her brain, not knowing what to parley to him. Pondering if he knew who she truly was. As the coughing fit subsided, words of Flynn entered her mind:

Just stick to what I told you, Haddox, and you'll be fine. If you get asked who you are, lie through your teeth and make up some bullshit story. Say nothing about Midtown and nothing about me. And no matter what you do, stay away from Spot Conlon. Even though you may fool his boys, you won't be able to fool him.

So, she lied through her teeth and made up a bullshit story. "I-I'm new to town. My cousin Flick invited me. Thought I could meet some new people. I had gone outside for a moment and when I came back, he was gone. I was looking for him."

"You were looking for him behind my trunk?" he inquired, pulling back further on his weapon.

Angel released a sharp noise as his heel dug further into the flesh of her throat. "I had a couple of drinks. Do you really expect me to be thinking straight?"

He regarded her suspiciously for a moment, one eyebrow cocked, as she held her breath and silently prayed that he would buy her concocted tale. His features relaxed, and he reluctantly straightened, allowing the slingshot to fall lax to his side in his grasp. Though his eyes still burned and he did not alleviate his heel from her throat.

"What's your name?" he brusquely implored, raising her chin with the tip of his shoe.

Angel's gaze could now only stare skyward and she found it excruciating to swallow. "Are you this way with all girls?" she asked, her voice coming out broken from the sole upon her trachea.

His mouth twisted into a grim sneer. "You must have caught me on a bad day. And I'm careful these days. Don't know who the hell's working for who."

Don't know who the hell's working for who. His words resounded in her head. If only he knew who he had under his shoe, she thought ironically.

"Well, I can assure you that I am not working for anyone. And if you'll remove your damn foot from me I can continue to search for Flick."

His scowl deepened. "I thought you said you were drunk."

"What does it matter to you?" she hissed in an indignant voice, expertly disguising the fear and anticipation that coursed through her. It did not take much time to dispose of corpses by means of the river. Flynn would be waiting for her in the parlor, even more infuriated with her than he had been prior to her current situation. Or perhaps in his rage he had already sojourned once more to Midtown, only to fatally whisper in Oliver's ear of her traitorous ways. The notion made her violently ill. She now resorted to pleading. "Please, let me go, I have to find my cousin."

His crystalline eyes searched her once more before darkening. He sharply removed his heel from the flesh of her neck, and Angel quickly drew herself into a sitting position, her back against the wall. She bent over, her forehead touching the grimy floorboards and her hair falling around her as she huskily drew in the precious air that she had been deprived of. Only when the life force had been replenished, that she raised her head to find Conlon had moved over to the warped vanity. A spread palm resting upon its surface, his head hung and he released a deep exhalation as he absentmindedly ran a hand through his hair. His eyes were closed and he wore a troubled expression.

It only then donned upon Angel Haddox that she was in the quarters of the lord of the Brooklyn newsies, he himself standing before her. It took her breath away that she had not acquired a bullet in her head yet. The conversation that had occurred while she had hidden behind the trunk replayed itself in her mind as her steel eyes regarded him unblinkingly. The other that Conlon had been speaking heatedly with had inquired if he had really wanted to get things started up again.

Get things started up again-Angel had not an ounce of reasoning of what that meant. She had attained the knowledge that Conlon certainly assumed that the truce between them was now and void on Oliver's side. Yet, what work that he had been referring to, she could only but guess. Ever since the battle between the two districts to rival the Armageddon that had occurred some two years ago, both sides had begrudgingly called a truce after scores on their sides had perished and both leaders sent to the House of Refuge. Brooklyn had held up their side of the bargain, yet from the time that Oliver had been released from the juvenile imprisonment, under his command she and Flynn had been stealing to Brooklyn in the night hours and slaying Spot Conlon's newsies.

Angel slowly rose to her feet, careful to pull her skirts down to that her sheathed blade did not make its appearance known to the Brooklyn leader. Brushing the dust that had settled upon the vermilion dress, she made her way across the room, her eyes never leaving him. She knew the only sensible and reasonable act would have been to steal out of the door and to Flynn where she would most likely receive a tongue-lashing as they returned to Midtown while the new day began. She knew she should be scared witless of him. Midtown's hatred of Brooklyn ran deep, and the rivalry could be terminated once and for all if Brooklyn were to fall-

The light caught her eye in the form of a sadistic gleam. He had now brought three of his fingers to the bridge of his nose, his brow furrowed and jaw clenched. She approached him, slowly, contemplating the ludicrous notion that reverberated in her brain. Dare she try and slay him for the glory of Midtown?

Her better judgment had been shattered long before, the alcohol and ambition was now in control of her mind. She had failed Flynn earlier and did not want to fail her brother. Would it not be delectable if he were to hear the news the next morn that Spot Conlon's throat had been slashed the previous night?

A feverish high coursed through Angel's veins, a thrill she experienced only while downing a bottle of booze with Flynn and their latest kill at their feet. She approached Conlon and stood only a whisper away from him, taking in gleefully that he was oblivious to her presence.

She lowered her mouth slowly to his ear, staying in that position for sometime as he continued to display the signs of what were a fantastic ache in his head. "Does it hurt?" she inquired in a soft voice, her hot breath filling his ear canal.

Conlon jumped at this, his eyes opening wide and his side slamming into the vanity, causing it to clatter. "What in the hell are you still doing here?"

She watched him, taking her time in replying. "A thought had crossed my mind." She pressed her body against him, pushing his lower back against the edge of the vanity. "You don't look like you're having any fun at your own party."

His countenance darkened considerably as he broke out of her grip with a flourish of disgust. He strode across the room to the desk, inclining and placing his palms on the warped desk. He observed the dancing flame of the kerosene lamp, the crevices of his visage highlighted by the blaze, as he wrathfully responded. "How can I explain to you? Why would I explain? You said you were from out of town and it wouldn't concern you."

Angel joined him, her steps deliberate and dark gray eyes waxed hungrily. She sat on the edge of the desk, pushing herself so she sat in the center of it, mere inches away from his face. A smile danced upon her lips like the light. "Oh, I may be from out of town, but I've heard of you." She moved her face closer to his, and he abruptly raised his head, their noses nearly touching as the crackling fire reflected on their features. "And these are not your normal traits."

Conlon's eyes narrowed as he cocked his head. "And I suppose your cousin told you this?"  
She shrugged slightly as she brought her legs around so that they now hung over the edge of the desk, between his taunt arms. The sheath of her blade pressed against her flesh. "Why did you ask who I was working for?"

He pushed off the desk with an exhalation of disgust, standing erect. "Get out of my room."

A smile crossed her lips as she straightened her legs, the soles of Dominiquette's heels pressing against his lower abdomen. As she thrust herself off of the desk and into a standing position, he lost his balance and fell back into the bowed chair. The chair released a howling shutter as it caught his weight. His eyes were on fire as he watched her, slouched in the seat and his legs partly a gap. Angel then lowered herself into the chair, her bent legs on either side of his. Her skirts spread out, covering the gray slacks he wore. "What is plaguing you?"

An expression of sorrow washed over his face as he shook his head, resting his brow in his hand, his elbow planted on an armrest. "I can't deal with this right now."

A smug smile adorned Angel's lips as she regarded the pathetic state of the fearless leader of Brooklyn. If only her brother could view how weak their keystone was, and how liable they were to crumble. He had the heel of his palm pulling his brow upwards and his fingers intertwined within his brassy hair as she simultaneously pushed his worn-crimson suspenders off of his shoulder. She then started for the uppermost buttons of his sullied white- collar shirt, her only experience being her own garments that she had fastened and unfastened on her own being.

Conlon's weight shifted in the chair, and it released another great cry, as his back sank lower. This act caused her now to be straddling his lower half, her black garters touching the material of his trousers.

After Angel had emancipated the last button, she pulled the shirt open to reveal his lithe chest. As she did so, a thought, much like a fleeting flash of lightening in a storm, entered her brain. It inquired what in the blue hell she was doing.

She halted in freeing his shirt from his trousers and observed him, a slight frown touching her face. His eyes were still clenched shut and his palm pressing with a passion against his brow as though to alleviate some massive aching, perhaps a pain to rival the shots that occurred between Angel's eyes intermittently. She realized then the incredulity of the situation: she, Oliver Haddox's sister, straddling Spot Conlon, the leader of Brooklyn, with the means of slicing his neck.

Angel sat back, releasing her grip upon his shirt, and suddenly felt genuinely ashamed of herself. Conlon looked liable to have a breakdown of some sort, most likely aggravated by Oliver Haddox and his assassins of the night. His words entered her brain:

He sends assassins after my boys for Christ's sake! I've never done that unless provoked.

Even though his name elicited bitter oaths of hate from those that followed her brother, at least he had the decency to uphold a truce with his wild rival. If the slaying that she, Flynn, and Nero had committed nearly shy of a month ago was still troubling him, what was he bound to think as he found the remains of a double homicide floating waterlogged in the river the next morning?

Angel cursed herself for thinking these damned thoughts. This night had been one that she wished would never have to have its name mentioned as long as she walked upon the earth. He was not going to have his life ended by her hand tonight. Allow it to end in battle with her brother.

She released a low sigh, prepared to dismount the chair, when Conlon suddenly lowered his hand from obstructing his face. She only saw his crystalline eyes open, clear and cool, before his lips were pressed against hers, hungry and ravaging. Her eyes opened to their entirety and she emitted a noise of complete and utter shock as she tried to pull away sharply. Yet, his hands had found her head, circling quickly, his fingers entwined in her tangles of flaxen hair, inhibiting her from doing do. The raw passion and want and desperation that surged through him was transferred to Angel, as she tasted the stale gin and dated nicotine that clung to his breath. These emotions terrified her to the innermost marrow, that one could experience emotions these unbridled and wild, and she could not but help that her brother had been the main benefactor of the energy that crackled from him to her.

He released a growl of pleasure as Angel allowed herself to succumb, releasing the emotions that had built up inside her, not giving a damn who was the recipient of her passion and hate, just that it could be released. Conlon raised a leg, placing it blindly upon the chair, raising her closer to him.

Angel closed her eyes harder, her legs now on either side of his bent one, as her arms found their way to his neck, into his dirty blond hair. She did not witness Spot Conlon in her feverish embrace, only a much-needed recipient of her strong emotions that had needed for so long to be emancipated. Her loathing at Nero Night, her failure of Flynn, her failure of herself, her mortal fear as what would occur to her trade was passed on to him, just as she received his intense, fiery hatred of her brother, of Midtown, and the ridiculous pressures that were placed upon him so quell this problem and halt the finding of bodies in the river at sun-up.

She released herself to the electricity, just as she felt him to the same. Alas, the audible noise of the door being thrown open with a bang deterred her and he broke apart. She turned her head to see that a newsie was standing in the doorway, doubled over, his palms on his upper thighs. His large eyes fell to Conlon as he quickly regained his composure, though the words were companioned with short breath. "Spot-outside-by the dock in the river-two guys-dead-Oh Christ dead!"

Angel felt Conlon's fingers expeditiously take leave from her hair. He quickly started to rise to his feet, causing her to emit a cry as she fell to the sullied floorboards. Though, she did not feel the shooting pains in her lumbar area. The shade of her skin had waned, just as Conlon's had, yet for different reasons. As his blue curses with the reprised word of Midtown ruptured the air, Angel could only lie, paralyzed with fear.

The two cadavers of those that Flynn had slain had been discovered. The blood pulsed through her veins, chilled, with a vengeance as she questioned whether Flynn had been captured or not.

She glanced up and saw Conlon, his face twisted in rage, and his hands tugging furiously at his hair. He finally released a sob laced with infuriation as he violently shoved past the newsie who had herald the grim news. The latter quickly followed after Conlon, their heavy footsteps and Conlon's fulminating oaths audible from the hallway.

Angel fluidly gathered herself to a standing position, dashing down the darkened hallway, suppressing the urge to hysterically scream Flynn's name to that of a whisper. As she descended the stairs, she halted midway in descent, to find that all inhabitants of the lodging house no longer remained inside. They were most likely out at the pier due to the distant shouts she heard resonating from outside.

She released a cry, calling Flynn's name against her better will, as she skidded down the remainder of the stairs. Her hand on the base of the banister, she was poised to fling herself out the doorway and onto the porch, when just as she was exiting the threshold she felt a strong arm wrap itself around her waist and a hand cover her mouth, pulling her backwards as though she were a creature born of elastic.  
Though she tried to increment her howls, they were muffled by the powerful grip upon her mouth. Her assailant pulled her backwards, her heels dragging in rebellion, to the doorway. Angel could now see onto the porch and the surrounding areas. She cocked her head back, her pate coming to rest against a broad chest, and she released a retrenched sob and her knees buckled from under her as she saw the hardened green eyes and shock of blonde hair that was nonetheless Flynn Finesse.

His features set in hate, Flynn's grip only became more constricting as he sidestepped out the lodging house and onto the porch, the floorboards creaking under their weight. He halted only when they were well concealed in a copse of bushes that bordered the left side of the Brooklyn structure. There, he held Angel erect, and she watched in stunned silence with Flynn's palm over her lips the scene before her.

The avenue that the lodging house resided on crested into small hill some hundred yards away, halting where land met water and the docks were situated. The populace of the lodging house was now down by the docks, the bright lantern that lined the streets illuminating their minute figures in the night. There were a few that still ran down the hill and to the scene of the crime. Amongst that group, Angel could discern Spot Conlon, his white shirt flying unbuttoned behind him as he finally approached the docks.

Amongst the shouts and the cries, he pushed his way to the center, coming to a halt over two bodies that lay sprawled in unnatural situations.

"Don't worry," Flynn said in a low, bitter voice close to her ear. "I dumped the bodies. Some drunk bastard took a girl down there to get laid and he found them."

Conlon now dropped to his knees, his gaze flickering wildly to and from the corpses. As his agonizing howl ruptured the night air, Angel closed her eyes as tight as humanly possible, turning her head so that one cheek rested upon Flynn's chest. She could not suppress the sobs that raked at her or the tears that streamed down her cheeks, dampening Flynn's hand.

She could barely even manage the trek to Midtown as the assassin pulled both of them out of the bushes, disappearing from the Brooklyn Newsboys Lodging House and into the night.

***

As Angel Haddox and Flynn Finesse finally reached the warehouse that was residence to Midtown, night was waning and the bright sunlight was beginning to touch the sky as the eastern horizon made preparations for sunrise.

Flynn entered the warehouse first, exhausted and silent. Angel waited outside, frozen, paralyzed, sick with fear at looking upon the face of her brother. She only stood outside the façade, staring at the gleaming black revolver that she held in her flattened palms. The first rays of light reflected off of the weapon, as she absentmindedly turned it this way and that. Flynn had returned it to her on their sojourn back.

She then drew a hand around the base and cocked the trigger. She raised her arm, placing the barrel to her temple and closing her eyes. Oh, how deliciously simplistic it would be to end her woeful life right here and now. Then she would not have to face Oliver's wrath, his disappointment of his greatest creation of hate could be tossed aside so carelessly.

Yet, her eyes opened and she drew the revolver down, swallowing the sour bile that loomed at the back of her throat and entered the warehouse. Her countenance was void of any expression and her soul empty as she entered the first large area on her right, the room that served as the parlor.

The parlor was cavernous, yet it was dreary and dust-ridden. The singular window that sat perched high in the front wall of the warehouse served as the only allotment of light allowed in the room. Though, the waning bars of night threw themselves through the pane of glass, now. Moldy cardboard boxes and decrepit wooden chairs, some that were turned upright, littered about served as the only furniture.

Angel stood sullenly in the entryway. The only other inhabitants of the room were her brother and Nero Night, the former reclining on a broken chair and the latter on a lone crate. They each had a girl on their knees before them, performing monstrous acts upon them. Though, Oliver must have grown tired with his for she lay sprawled on her back with a gun wound in her head. Night's still kneeled before him, sobbing her utter heart out.

Flynn stood before them his back to Angel, as both Oliver and Night regarded him, not taking any heed to Angel.

Oliver sunk lower into the chair, stretching his legs out before him and crossing his ankles upon the cadaver at his feet, using it as a kind of morbid footrest. As he smiled his disgusting smile and bared his jagged teeth, his brown eyes glittered with malevolence. "Well, did you do it, Finesse?"

Angel's stomach lurched as her breath caught in her throat, waiting for him to tell of her miserable failure. Yet, she watched as his shoulders heaved in exhaustion and as he wearily replied, "Yeah. We killed them. They're dead."

She uttered a gasp in pure shock at his statement. This caused Oliver and Night's eyes to be shifted to her. Her brother's eyes gleamed and his smile broadened as he regarded her standing in the threshold. The girl at Night's feet released a scream of agony and fell back, pleading for her allowance to stop. Night only called her a despicable name and balled his fist, striking her across the face.

Angel entered the parlor, just as Flynn turned and brushed past her, the crevices of his fair features lines with weariness. Her gaze followed him before turning to Night. She pulled her revolver, straightening her arms before her and lining the barrel in between his eyes. Her raw nerves rivaled that of a stick of dynamite that only had to be ignited. "Do that again and I'll blow your brains out."

A shadow fell across Nero's face as his black eyes narrowed, taking in the proposition that faced him. Oliver's only reaction that of his smile slithering up his face more, Night sat back on the crate, reluctantly clasping his trousers shut as he shot a look of sheer hatred at her.

As she lowered the revolver, Oliver broke the silence of the room by slowly and softly clapping his hands together. Angel's glare fell to him and her scowl grew as she took in the amused expression that adorned his features.

"Wonderful work, dear sister. Finesse told me that you did very well."

She held the revolver firmly at her side as her eyes narrowed into slits. "Don't anybody dare wake me up today. And don't even think about sending me out tonight on any goddamn assassination."

With those final remarks to her kin, she turned on her heel and exited the parlor, climbing the flights of steps in a great thunder. She was poised to enter the doorway to the third floor when she heard heavy footsteps on the stairs behind her, and turned sharply to see the darkened figure of Nero Night approaching her.

Angel's eyes narrowed in contempt at him, her grip growing firmer around the revolver at her side. "What in the name of Jesus Christ do you want?"

Night was only silent, his ebony eyed locked upon hers as he drew himself to the step she occupied. She pressed herself against the wall as he inched his way closer to her, his oleaginous hair reflecting the dim light that surrounded them. He pressed himself close enough to her so that she could inhale the rank odor that radiated from him.

Night drew his head down, his nose inhaling her flesh. His gaze then locked with hers as his lips pulled themselves into a sneer. "You reek of Brooklyn."

Her countenance twisted into hatred. "And you reek of an ambitious pick who will never be anything more than a foil to my brother," she hissed in a low voice, before pushing him aside and entering the threshold to her quarters, slamming the door with a shuddering bang.

Taking great strides across the protesting floorboards, she released the revolver from her grasp, ignoring as it slid across the floor before coming to its resting-place. As she reached the mattress, she pulled the blood-red whore's dress over her head with great difficulty and grand screams before heaving it to the floor where it remained in a pile. She then threw herself down upon her mattress, clothed in only the corset, burying her head into the flattened pillow and digging her fingernails into the wretched mattress.

Angel then turned onto her back, one arm behind the pillow and one leg bent, as she cast her gaze to the window there the light of the dawning day filtered through. She sat watching the window, unblinkingly, until a sudden thought flashed across her mind.

She then slowly willed herself up, her tangled mass of hair falling over her shoulders as she prompted her legs into an Indian-style position. Angel torpidly, almost reluctantly, brought her forearm to her nostrils and inhaled. Her eyes widened and she cast her eyes to the bars of the new day the window brought into her room.

She did not carry the familiar scent of Midtown upon her flesh. It was an alien redolence that she perceived. One of Brooklyn.

Of Spot Conlon.


	7. Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE

Spot Conlon was straddling her.

Angel sank lower in the rickety chair, the small of her back touching the seat. "I can't deal with this right now," she stated, her voice pleading and miniscule.

His lips twisted into a wicked smile as a mischievous air flickered within his burning blue eyes. He cocked his head to the right, a stand of his brassy blond hair falling across his brow, and sank lower with her. He pressed his torso against hers, his legs sprawled carelessly upon hers, pushing his nose to hers. He was exhaling from his mouth, causing his exceedingly warm breath to play across her face.

She closed her eyes to bridle the arousal that surged through her gelatinous insides. She dare not look at him for fear that she may slide off the chair from sheer weakness.

"Oh, but you don't look like you are having any fun at your own party," he chided laughingly, pressing his pelvis briefly against hers.

She stifled a growl of pleasure by biting her lower lip almost to the point of drawing blood, as she clenched her eyes closed as tight as humanly possible. His body shifted over hers and an involuntary moan escaped her lips.

His light laugh pierced the air as she felt him begin to slide the worn- crimson suspenders off her shoulders, running his palms down her arms as he did so. A shiver danced down her spine as his hands halted at her wrists, and as he raised each of her hands to the air. She elicited a cry and her eyes fluttered open as she felt the tips of her fingers being slightly drawn into his mouth, the tip of his tongue dancing over them.

Her wide eyes focused on him. It was utterly sinful the way his crystalline eyes seduced her; the way the blaze from the kerosene lamp created a striking contrast of light and dark on his comely face.

"What is plaguing you?" he inquired, a touch of worry crossing his visage as he roughly tugged on the white-collar shirt that was tucked inside her trousers. She rose some so that he was able to emancipate the garment and reveal her abdomen.

Unable to cite a reply, her eyes dropped to the blood-red collar-shirt he was wearing. She focused on the garment until the last of the buttons had been undone and her shirt pulled back, revealing the creamy hued flesh of her torso. She cast her gaze to him once more, the passion mixing with her boiling blood at the site of his smoldering eyes glinting with mischief. He brought his fingers down lightly against her stomach, causing her to flinch and arch her back underneath him. The tips of them burned her skin, causing her to clench her teeth and her eyes together, as she willed herself not to succumb to the orgiastic sensations that rode at her heels.

He began to lower his head towards hers, and inclined it somewhat. His eyes glittered wildly and his lips were nearly pressed against hers, when out of the corner of her eye she witnessed the stealth gesture of his right arm and the violent glitter of an unknown object. He quickly backed his face away from hers as he cupped his palm around her chin and pressed her head back.

She could only watch the fire dance in his eyes as she felt a prick on her neck, like the pressing of a sharp object, a pain that continued in a straight line across her entire throat.  
He released his palm from her chin, and she lowered her head, doing so spying the bloodstained blade he clasped in his hand, glittering ominously in the light.

"Does it hurt?" he inquired in a mocking voice, as she placed a hand to her throat, feeling a wet stickiness cover her flesh.

His laughter permeated the air as she brought her claret soaked hand in front of her eyes. She then glanced down, noting the blood was gushing from her slit throat, utterly staining the both of them with its hellfire red hue. Her gaze fell to him once more. He had thrown his head back and his gales of laughter were surging about the room. She cocked her head as confusion filled her brain at the lack of agony the wound inflicted to her trachea. It had a surreal quality to it, as his wild laughter filled her ears as she continued to unconsciously press her hand against the severed flesh, the dark blood coursing through the cracks between her fingers.

And audible bang then sounded, and she cast her vision over his heaving shoulder to see the door to the room had been thrown open and her brother stood in the doorway, doubled over, his palms on his upper thighs. Once he regained his composure, his dark brown eyes fell to her as he closed the distance between them with a cat-like grace. A smile played upon his lips as he observed the scene. He circled around the chair, nodding appreciatively. Conlon had since gone quiet.

As he did a second lap around the chair, he suddenly halted directly in front of her, rubbing his chin between his fingers and his eyes glowing in agreement. "Very good, Angel, I must say very good. Nice work. It's such a relief that we won't have to worry about that Brooklyn bastard Spot Conlon any longer."

Conlon had turned over his shoulder to regard Oliver, a slight stain of red washing over his face. "Awh, Oliver, it was nothing."

Oliver's grin widened as he produced a clicking sound with his tongue, playfully mussing Conlon's hair with his hand. "I always knew you were the best damn assassin-no, the best damn sister around!"

She leaned forward in the chair, her eyes waxed and hand still pressing against her slit throat. She opened her mouth to issue a string of protests, yet her words were soundless. When she realized that her voice was silent, she struggled even more.

The other two seemed to be oblivious to her.

"So, Angel, ready to go dump his body in the river?"

She once more dropped her jaw, mouthing soundlessly that she was Angel Haddox, not the imposter Brooklyn leader that straddled her. Yet, her brother proceeded as though Conlon were his kin. Conlon then slid slowly off of her, two sets of eyes burning into her soul.

The eyes then broke contact as her brother went around the back of the chair, her frantic gaze following him.

"You get the feet and I'll get the head, Angel."

Conlon silently nodded as he fell to his haunches, his dark stare regarding her, simultaneously grasping her ankles and rising to his feet just as she felt the chair being sharply pulled out from behind her, her brother catching her easily.

She was now horizontal in the air, her brother at her head and Conlon at her feet, as panic raced through her just as the blood raced from her painless wound at her throat. She rolled her eyes back in her head, taking heed of the amusement that seeped through her brother's pores as he exchanged glances with Conlon. "Just think of what Brooklyn will think when they find their leader floating like a gutted fish in the river the next morning!"

Conlon released a chortle at her feet. The two then began to move forward as her lips issued forth soundless screams, pleading for her life-

Angel bolted upright on the tattered mattress covered in a mantel of cold sweat and breathing labored. Her eyes immediately opened to their entirety, and her pupils constricted painfully due to the bright light that flooded the room. She brought her knees to her chin and placed a hand to her clammy brow, pushing back tangles of flaxen hair.

The dream still remained candidly vivid in her psyche, along with the burning fever that still lingered on. It was a ridiculously uncomfortable feeling; the iciness of the perspiration coated her skin, yet a hot sensation was pulsing through her blood, almost like an internal itch. She released a gasp as her hand brushed over her face, wiping away the beads of perspiration.

"What in the name of all that is holy was that?" she whispered breathlessly, closing her eyes. Yet, she saw the pair of burning, crystalline eyes from the dream. Her eyes immediately fluttered open at the image that haunted her, her chest heaving heavily.

The image deeply unsettled her, along with the smoldering sensation that raced inside her. She shut her eyes once more, bowing her head between her knees and running both hands through her hair. She then raised her gaze to the window that ushered forth the shafts of morning light.

Angel slowly rose to her feet and crossed over to the window, the floorboards unusually quiet under her weight. Resting her head against the cracked border of the pane of glass, she gazed out to see that morning was fully underway in Midtown. Several of the bulking newsies were loitering outside on the avenue, the shadows of the warehouse and the desolate apartments across the way mixing with the sun on the cobblestone street. Nero Night stood in the midst of them, his back to the warehouse and his arms gesturing wildly as he spoke to the newsies that comically triumphed over him in both size and stature.

She averted her gaze away from the scene outside and to the dusty sill of the window. A shutter wrought through her courtesy of the hotness that shot through her once more. Her mind wandered once more to the dream, to Spot Conlon. Her index and middle finger found their way to her full lips, running over them, as Night's words to her at dawn haunted her:

You reek of Brooklyn.

She froze, paralyzed, as the words echoed in her mind as though he had hollered them into some canyon of massive breadth. A bolt of reality then struck her as she realized that she was smoothing her lips, and she turned, disgusted, from the window only to have her eyes fall upon the revolver. It lay still on the floorboards, gleaming from a shaft of sunlight, where she had carelessly tossed it previously that morning.

Immediately, her psyche was bombarded with atrocious images. Of Flick standing before her in the dark, his knees knocking, body convulsing, and eyes a light in utter fear of the barrel of the revolver that she had pointed to him. Of Charley Cicatrice and his rank breath and the even ranker scar that trailed his visage; how his life had been so brutally ended with Flynn's simple utterance of the word "three." And of the two corpses lying sprawled on the docks in night, pale slivers of moonbeams reflecting off the blood that oozed from the quarter-sized gunshot wounds to their foreheads.

Angel elicited a slight gasp as she felt her knees weaken from under her. She clung to the windowsill, easing herself to the ground, as her wide eyes beheld the murderous weapon that lay casually on the floor. She pulled herself over to the weapon, stretching one arm ahead of the other, and brought her curled legs in close to her body. The gun held her in a trance, the hideous feelings that had accompanied last night returning once more with a vengeance and holding steadfast. She reached a hand out in front of her to grasp the gun, when out of the corner of her eye she viewed a subtle sparkle. Her gaze dropped to her bent legs that rested on the floor, clothed only on the ebony garters from the previous night.

The sunlight that entered from the window was reflecting off the blade that she kept sheathed and bound to her upper thigh. The slain Brooklyn newsies vanished from her thoughts as she regarded the partially unsheathed blade, gleaming brightly in the light. The blade that she had planned to use to slit Spot Conlon's neck.

She released an involuntarily sigh in spite of herself as she thought of the name. The passion that had lay dormant for the past few minutes roared to life once more like an inferno under her skin, heating her flesh. Her already sticky from sweat epidermis was met with a fresh coat of perspiration as the crackling, intense emotions that had been passed from him to her during the ill-fated embrace of the previous night flooded back once again.

As a wave of heat rode through her, Angel brought her eyes away from the glimmering dagger, fighting the sensations that overwhelmed her. She pulled herself to her wretched mattress, lying down on her on her back. Her golden hair fanned out on the pillow under her head and her raven corset and garters clung uncomfortably to her body from the beads of sweat.

The heat passed, and logic returned once more. She dare not even attempt to make anything of the wild dream or the wonderful, wild sensations it had brought on. She only contented herself with blindly reaching for her revolver and once more stuffing it under her pillow. She reckoned that it must already be somewhere near noon. Flynn would most likely awake her in a few hours; it was best to forget all the heinous events that had occurred late last night and early that morning.

Angel exhaled, settling into the lumpy mattress, exhaustion immediately overtaking her. She peacefully closed her eyes. The two burning cerulean orbs gazed back at her in the darkness. A sigh came from her parted lips as she could imagine his fingers dancing over her abdomen.

She soon fell into a restless sleep, a sleep relentless of the dreams.

***

Slumber was banished from Angel as a violent shake to the torso awoke her. She immediately sat into a sitting position, her eyes only partially open, as lightheadedness descended upon her. Her brain could still not comprehend being so rudely awakened.

The grip now moved to her bare shoulder, squeezing it tightly, jolting her back and forth and causing the mussed hair that framed her face to swing wildly.

"Angel, for Christ's sake wake up now." The voice was an urgent, growling baritone, a voice she recognized immediately as Flynn's.  
Hey dark gray eyes sleepily opened to their entirety, her pupils only the size of pinpricks due to the relentless waves of sunlight that streamed into the room. What she viewed caused the exhaustion to evaporate from her system. Flynn was positioned next to her mattress, fallen to his haunches. His golden-shot hair glimmering in the sun, he was still garbed in the same worn-out in hue black collar-shirt and matching colored trousers from the sojourn to Brooklyn, the revolver tucked carefully within its band. Yet, it was his face that chilled her blood. His flesh had turned a pale shade of white, causing his green eyes to be even starker. She read fear and consternation within the irises.

The color drained from Angel's face and she felt the room take on a glacial atmosphere, despite the blazing heat that roared outside. "Flynn, what's wrong?" she inquired, her voice barely above a whisper.

His eyes gazed into her intently. "There's someone from Brooklyn here to see Oliver."

And then it was as though as Angel was an axiom, for the walls about her began to spin violently. She leaned forward, planting her brow in her palm, her elbow on the mattress, for a wave of sickness washed over her.

The hideous images of the Brooklyn newsies murdered at the hands of Flynn once more emblazoned themselves in her mind; their cadavers wrought in perfect detail. "What in the hell do you mean there's someone here from Brooklyn to see Oliver?"

Flynn only shook his head, his eyes taking on a glazed appearance. "I, I don't know. I went out just now to get something to eat at The Hideaway and I see this fellow I never saw before standing outside the warehouse. I went up to him and asked what he wanted and he replied that he was from Brooklyn and wanted to see Oliver."

Angel sharply jerked her head up, her eyes burning. "That's all he said? Just that he wanted to see Oliver?"

He released a disgusted exhalation as he pushed himself to his feet. He stepped absentmindedly in a semi-circle, running both hands through his hair before dropping them to his sides and turning to face Angel once more. "It's just that. That's all he said. That he wanted to see Oliver. I knew that I should have blown him away, but I didn't. The whole thing sounded like a crock of bullshit to me."

Angel rose quickly to her feet and strode over to the window that faced out onto the avenue in front of the warehouse. Inverting her palms on the sill, she pressed her forehead close to the slovenly pane of glass, trying to discern the newsboy that Flynn spoke of. All she viewed was the façade of the abandoned apartment complex along the way as it cast its dark shadows upon the street, the street inhabited by not a single soul.

She turned over her shoulder to Flynn. "There's no one out there, Flynn."

Flynn halted in his pacing and halted to regard her, his jade eyes wide in disbelief. "There's no one out there?" he cried in true surprise.

She nodded her head and cocked a brow, causing Flynn's features to morph, to darken as his eyes narrowed. "Now, wait a minute, Angel, wait a minute. Don't go giving me that look like you don't believe me. You saying you don't believe me?" Angel could not keep the bitterness from seeping into her voice. "I don't know Flynn. I guess one of Conlon's boys could have waltzed right into Midtown in daylight and casually ask to see my brother. After all, anything's possible after your supposedly best friend holds a revolver to your head."

His dark expression fell and her words left him someone slack jawed. He finally regained his composure, stalking vehemently across the room and shoving Angel aside to find her observation true. When he saw nothing on the street below, he slowly turned his head toward her to find steel-gray eyes locked in a burning glare.

Flynn dropped his glance away from her, flabbergasted to find the right words as he involuntarily ran a hand through his hair. "Angel, just trust me on this one."

She crossed her arms over her chest garbed only in the corset as her eyes sized him up. She snorted. "But tell me this, Flynn. Did you get your Haddoxs mixed up or something? Do I really resemble my brother that much?"

Flynn's brows furrowed as he struggled to contain the beginning traces of rage. "No, Angel, Oliver isn't here. Neither is Night. If I recall you saw the two pieces of meat that they had this morning." He noted the confusion that lined her face. "The piece of meat that your brother was using as a footstool. Remember, Angel?" His words struck the nerve in her by the way her expression twisted into disgust. "Well, let's just say Nero grew tired with his and their carcasses are in the parlor as we speak. They went out this morning to the brothel."

Angel felt her knees begin to buckle from under her with Flynn's words. "Oh, Flynn," she whispered.

He strode expeditiously across the room to Angel, placing his hands on either of her upper-arms, his eyes glinting with seriousness. "Angel, I'm not pulling your leg with this. I have no idea in hell who he was. I want your opinion."

Angel did not have to raise her eyes to his again. It was only a matter of moments before she had slid into a wrinkled pair of gray trousers, leaving the suspenders dangling at her sides, and was hurriedly following behind Flynn as their footsteps pounded against the flights of stairs.

"Flynn, why in the name of God would one of Brooklyn pull a stunt like this?" she gasped, thundering down the second flight of stairs they had covered, the flight that lead to the first floor. With the fast pace, it was a struggle to bind her tangles of hair in a tattered black ribbon that she had stealthy plucked from the top drawer in her dresser.

"Beats the hell of me," was his reply as he leapt off the penultimate step, stumbling and nearly losing his balance.

She followed after him as he raced down the straightaway that led to the main entrance of the warehouse. Angel pumped her legs as forcefully as she could, the rotting, splintered floorboards digging into her the bare soles of her feet, each step excruciating to take. Flynn had already pushed the door open, allowing bright shafts of sunlight into the moody, dark atmosphere of the Midtown warehouse, just as Angel was struggling past the parlor. She shuttered inwardly as she passed the parlor, a monstrous room that jutted off to her left. She forced her gaze straight. She was not sure if she would be able to suppress the urge to retch if she did indeed saw the corpses of the girls her brother and his foil had murdered.

She slowed her pace to a halt as she reached the doorway, pressing the warped board that served as a door back slowly and stepping into the sunlight. Her eyes narrowed involuntarily and as she began to pan the surroundings, when behind her the door slammed shut, causing her to jump somewhat in fright and turn over her shoulder.

When Angel perceived that it was just the wretched board banging shut, she elicited a broken exhalation and slowly descended the set of caved-in stairs that lead to the warehouse. Her gaze flickering about quickly, she took in the atmosphere. Flynn was standing in the median of the deserted avenue some way down to her left, turning in circles, most likely, trying to discern where the so-called Brooklyn newsie had vanished.  
She slowly made her way into the avenue also, her head turning this way and that. A light wind picked up in the stifling air, caressing away the first beads of perspiration that had broken out on her flesh and blowing her bound hair behind her.

There was an unusual, queer air to the atmosphere. The silence was deafening and the structures around her seemed surreal, the sprawling lot of abandoned apartments before her even more mammoth. The entire scene was just not right. It sent chills down her spine.

"Flynn," she called over the wind as it picked up once more, her eyes trained away from him and down the rest of stretch of road. Her voice sounded unnaturally sonorous, shattering the silence. "Flynn, this better not just be some kind of joke-"

"It isn't, Angel," his voice growled defensively in reply. "It's-"

She had heard the sound after he had paused after her name. It was a whizzing sound, as though some object was in flight in the air. She would have brushed it off as a figment of her imagination if she would not had heard Flynn's blood-curdling cry of agony.

Angel ripped her eyes from the sight she was viewing and spun sharply about. Flynn had fallen to one knee and had his right palm pressed tightly against his opposite upper-arm. His face was contorted into an expression of immense pain; even from the distance she was at she could view that.

"Flynn!" she shouted in a shrill pitch, as she dashed over to his side. She fell to her haunches; one hand on his shoulder as she tried to deduce what had produced such a frightening sound from his lips. "Flynn, what in the name of God happened?"

She placed her hand upon his, trying to pry his fingers off of his flesh to that she could glance at the wound that plagued him. As she did so, he hissed in pain, jerking his arm away from her. He glowered at her, his green eyes glimmering, and his lips twisted into a snarl. He hauntingly resembled an injured animal.

"Flynn, what happened?" she implored once more, her tone growing impatient, as she reached out to him. He only leaned away from her grasp, applying more pressure to his arm. Her agitation and need to help him finally grew so great that she leaned forward, falling into him and catching him off balance. He brought his hand away from the injured arm and used it to stabilize himself as he fell onto his bottom. She took this as her chance and gripped his bicep firmly. What she saw caused bewilderment to wash over her.

The left bicep held a nasty looking, circular shaped welt. The bruise itself had already turned a violent shade of dark purple, with the color becoming shades of red as it progressed out from the center. As she gazed at the welt in awe, Flynn roughly pulled his arm away from her, nursing the painful infliction once more.

Though, Angel's interest was distracted from him at the moment as she dropped her gaze as her eyes began to hunt the ground in the surrounding areas. She found the object she hunted for at the tip of Flynn's sullied boot. Falling to her elbows, she stretched out in front of him, plucking the object from the cobblestones as Flynn murmured blue curses into the wind.

She held the object between her index finger and thumb, her gaze studying it intensely and her countenance twisted into disbelief as she rose slowly to her feet. She lifted her arm, the object twirling slightly in her grasp. As she did so, its glass-hewn surface caught the sun, causing it to refract off its surface and glitter in the light.

Angel held a smooth, rounded marble between her fingers, its color an intense peacock shade. Her eyes narrowed and she cocked her head in wonderment. "What the hell-"

It was as she regarded the strange marble that fell from the heavens to strike Flynn, that the distant whizzing noise, no louder than a housefly, caught her ear. Before she had time to react, a small object collided into her lower right shoulder, in its wake leaving blinding agony. She issued a scream at the stabbing pains the miniscule object brought on as she dropped the cerulean marble she had held in her hands, leaving it clatter to the street.

Fighting the tears that welled in the creases of her eyes at the excruciating pain, Angel writhed, desperately trying to sedate the jarring bolts of pain that radiated from her shoulder blade. She was finally able to clasp her palm over the wound, after bending her arm behind her back.

She deemed that she could hear Flynn shouting to her, yet his cries were only a fuzzy whisper. She twisted her head around and searched through blurred vision until she saw it, lying on the smoothed cobblestones at her feet. A black marble rolled to a stop, glinting in the beams of sun. Her mind drew an absolute blank for a moment as she gazed unblinkingly at the raven marble.

And then a thought dawned upon her that chilled her to the innermost core despite the blazing heat that saturated the air. In her mind's eye, the ebony marble slowly metamorphosed into a strikingly blue marble-like such a strikingly blue marble that had been positioned in a slingshot between two strikingly blue eyes.

The pain was all but forgotten as the fear replaced it. She blinked and the marble retained its black shade once more. "Oh no," she whispered in a shivering voice. "Oh, God."

Beside her on the avenue, Flynn had subdued his wild oaths to regard her incredulously and implore what was up her ass. She only stepped away from the marble, shaking her head and whispering under her breath.

"Angel, what the hell is wrong?"

Angel shook her head more intensely, her mutterings becoming more audible. The blue marble held steadfast in her mind as she slowly lifted her eyes to see the desolate apartment complex rise. Her eyes focused on the annex and what she espied caused her blood to curdle. Lining the rooftop, poised shoulder to shoulder, stood the newsboys of Brooklyn, all with slingshots pulled taunt, just waiting to be released. They were a fear-inducing sight, even to a Midtowner on her own turf, due to the hateful expression wrought on their faces. Flynn must have viewed them also, for he had since fallen silent.

Her eyes ran down the lines of them, until they fell upon one particular form in the center of them. His brassy hair blew in the slight wind and caught the sunlight, making it seem as though it were a halo of some sort. From this distance she could read the revilement and loathing in his striking crystalline eyes.

Her eyes locked upon his, Angel could only stand perfectly still, still holding the welt that one of the Brooklyn marbles had inflicted upon her. The blue eyes narrowed in determination, the elastic bands of the slingshots grew tighter.

Angel silently uttered, "Oh, God," just as their leader's voice rang out in Midtown, issuing forth their command. Their noise of hundreds of fatalistic marbles in flight permeated the air as Brooklyn's cries of war rose with them.

She could only close her eyes in anticipation of the showers of rounded glass that rained down upon her.


	8. Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX

It was a ridiculously odd sensation, for one who stood in the presence of Death for nearly more than half her life span and had planned to die at the hand of a weapon such as that of the revolver she carried, to fear being slain by a spherical shard of glass.

Though, in all its mirthful appearance, the marble was a coveted object in Brooklyn and the one who could wield it was considered to have an outstanding trade. It did not matter that both Flynn and Angel had their revolvers on hand; the hailstorm of marbles bruising their hands would deter them from reaching their weapons.

Angel only stood erect and paralyzed with her hand still covering the marble-inflicted wound on her shoulder blade, staring upwards at the glimmering marbles as though in a trace. They sliced through the smoldering July sky with a clean twang.

It was as a marble was sweeping down from the roof of the apartment building, poised to shatter her skull, that she felt the fear begin to kindle within the abyss of her stomach and begin to make its way to the back of her throat in the form of acidly bile. It was making its path closer to its target of the flesh between her eyes, yet she could not will her feet to move. The ruby marble refracting the sun's rays from its surface was only a couple of inches from the bridge of her nose, Angel's steel eyes waxed to their fullest, when she felt the forceful shove to her side that brought her feet from under her.

She hit the marred cobblestones hard. She landed on one elbow, her breath purloined from her, and Flynn's heavy weight on her. Her stricken reverie was shattered with the impact, as sharp jolts of pain radiated from her elbow. She arched her back slightly and brought her head up, her full lips a gap and wild eyes surveying through the tangles of golden hair that impaired her vision. Though, her nose was smashing into the cobblestones once more, as Flynn roughly placed his hand on the back of her head, slamming it to the street. She felt him press closer into her, shielding her, as the first fleet of marbles struck the street, bouncing off it.

Through the cacophony that Brooklyn was issuing, Flynn released a howl as his body convulsed slightly on top of Angel's. The marbles were apparently bombarding him as they took flight to their targets. She could not even begin to imagine the torture he was experiencing as one ricocheted off the soft flesh of her calf. She released a shrill protest as she involuntarily struggled from under Flynn, wishing to soothe the burning infliction that plagued her leg. Although he tried his best to subdue her and keep her horizontal on the cobblestones, the stinging sensation was too much to bear and Angel wriggled out from underneath him. She drew herself into a sitting position, and brought her calf close to her face, pressing her thumb tightly over the nasty welt that had already begun to form.

She was so busy with containing the searing pain in her leg that she had nearly forgotten of Brooklyn. It was only when she heard the sonorous gunshot rip over the twangs of the slingshots that her deep gray eyes widened and she immediately dropped her calf, her head sharply turning to where Flynn sat beside her. His legs were akimbo and his eyes directed to the Brooklynites who still littered the rooftop, gleaming like emeralds ignited from an inferno. In his left hand, his sword hand as the pair called the hand they held their gun in, was situated his revolver, smoking. Before a marble had struck his hand, causing him to cry out in pain and drop the weapon, Angel shifted her gaze to the roof where she espied a newsie drop his slingshot. His legs faltered under him as his hands clutched his heart. In the sunlight, the crimson blood that gushed from the wound issued to his chest glimmered. He released a scream before he pitched over the apartment building annex, falling to the street before her with a sickening thud.

Her lips remained in a grimly straight line as the newsies upon the roof halted in launching more marbles to release bellows and cries and lean over the edge to regard the fallen as he lay sprawled on the street. Angel ducked, missing the spherical shards of glass, as her eyes panned the rooftop. The leader of Brooklyn was not to be seen. He was most likely in the hoards that were filtering out of the decrepit apartment complex, onto the street to face in hand-to-hand combat.

Beside her, Flynn elicited a hideous cry that caused her to turn sharply. One of the newsies that led the masses that were filtering from the apartment complex had pelted him on the nose. Flynn was bent over, both his hands covering his shattered nose, bright blood seeping through his fingers.

Angel felt the hatred kindle within her insides and surge through her, heating her blood. Her eyes locked on the approaching newsie who had wounded Flynn's nose, she blindly felt her trouser waistband for the revolver. With a fluid motion she emancipated it and aligned it with the newsie's brow. With a slick click, a second gunfire shot through the chaos, embedding itself into the unfortunate's brain cavity. She felt no remorse as he fell backwards to his final position on the avenue.

The slaughter of their boys seemed to have stunned Brooklyn for a few moments, as the flying marbles halted. This gave Angel enough time to pull herself over to where Flynn was, hunched over and shoulder blades shaking. She positioned herself before him, putting one hand on his brow and pushing gently down so that he lay on the cobblestones on his back. The lower half of his visage and his white shirt had been stained with the blood that gushed from his nostrils. He released a cry as she carefully pried his fingers away to witness the shattered bridge courtesy of the marble. Repulsion coursed through her as his blood stained her hands and as she witnessed his tear-rimmed eyes brought on by the excruciating pain.

He was howling incessantly and babbling nonsense, wildly waving his arms in desperation to cup his hands once more over his nose. "Flynn, stop it!" she pleaded in a shallow whisper, unable to keep the fear from tainting her voice.

The shouts of Brooklyn incremented with each passing moment, as did Angel's terror. A sharp twang broke through the air and she quickly ducked, lowering her head over Flynn's. The shining fall of hair that had been bound in the tattered ribbon had all but come undone, and the yellow strands soaked up Flynn's blood like a sponge, turning the ends hell-fire red. She cocked her head to find the thin, lithe figures under the power of her brother's archenemy streaming towards her, trading in their slingshots for switches.

She closed her eyes and touched her nose to Flynn's decimated one, an intense bout of nausea riding through her. In those moments filled with bedlam, she pondered how in the hell this scenario had ever been allowed to pass. Brooklyn was finally taking their ultimate revenge; they had slunk into Midtown in broad daylight and were triumphing over two of Midtown's greatest shooters with pathetic marbles.

It was an insult.

As morbid notions of which Brooklyn newsie was going to have the honor of ending her life-perhaps it would be Conlon himself-Angel heard the bellows. They started off distant, like a whisper, and quickly rose to a great height, as though the earth was trembling. All thoughts of a Brooklyn victory were soon smashed to millions of shards as she quickly raised her head in the direction of the warehouse. It soon became aware to her that all sounds of Conlon's boys had died, and they stood frozen, their incredulous gazes directed towards the Midtown headquarters also.

The door banged opened with a great shudder, thrown off its hinges as the first of Midtown came thundering out of the threshold. Elation at their presence where she usually felt repulsion surged through her blood as an unknowing grin passed over her face. Oliver had chosen his army painstakingly, as they all shared in the same demeanor: none stood under six-feet and all shared in the same sculpted muscular build and small brain. The lanky stature of a Brooklyn newsie could not rival her brother's minions; two of Conlon's boys standing shoulder to shoulder would still not equal the breadth of a Midtowner's chest.

Angel did not even have to look to read the sudden wash of fear that filled the faces of Brooklyn. Midtown looked quite imposing, what with the chains, broken bottles, and switchblades they wielded. Their ringing bass cry of war had punctured the smoldering air even before the last one had exited through the doorway.

Angel lay in the avenue, hovered over Flynn who had since turned an ashen shade, as they filled the streets like a tidal wave, washing over Brooklyn and meshing with them. Her brother's newsies stampeded past her, ignoring her presence as some tripped over her on their way to Brooklyn. Her natural reflex was to hunch over more, her face inches away from Flynn, as she gathered her arms about him, shielding his shattered nose from the masses.

Through the clinks and twangs of colliding weapons, Brooklyn rose into a similar war cry, their song of battle rising with Midtown's under the white, breathless sun above. She could hear her heart beating feverishly within her chest as her hot breath and Flynn's filled the cocoon she had created around their faces. In spite of herself, a smile touched her lips as she stared into his burning emerald eyes stark against the fresh blood.

"It'll be all right, Flynn, it'll be all-" Angel did not have the opportunity to conclude her statement of hope, as she felt a hand roughly grab a fistful of her bound hair, sharply pulling on it. Her scalp immediately felt on fire, as though a blaze was ignited under it. A shrill scream issued forth from her lips as she felt herself being pulled backwards, away from Flynn, to fall to her hindquarters on the smooth cobblestones.

The disillusionment had not had time to recede as she felt the hard tip of a boot connect with her chin. The blow was devastating. It knocked her onto her back, where she laid writhing in pain and seeing bursting stars. If the impact of the marble had been a whisper than the blow had been a bellow of greatest sonority for it brought tears to the corners of her eyes. She floundered like a fish out of water, gasping for breath over the excruciating agony. When the stars finally extinguished, her vision cleared to see a newsie standing over her, his feet on either side of her arms.

He was clothed in black, despite the sweltering heat, a shade to match the raven quality of the slovenly hair that fell over his brow. A mirthful scowl caused his dark eyes to glint as he regarded her.

Angel tried to react, tried to free herself by flailing her arms to offset his balance, but he quickly clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. He fell to his haunches so that he was suspended only a few inches from her chest garbed only in the flimsy corset. The strong grip of his arms went to either of her wrists, as he pinned them to the ground, his dark eyes dancing.

"I'm sorry I had to blotch that exquisite little face of yours," he said off-handedly, his gaze roaming her face and the violent purple welt he had caused. "But you see, you killed my best friend-" Angel bucked violently under him, causing him to purse his lips together and slam her wrists once more to the cobblestones. "-you fucking Midtown whore."

A raging hate was set loose in Angel, as her cheeks reddened and cold, steel eyes narrowed in malevolence. "Which friend, you stupid Brooklyn fuck? Can you name me the one I killed, or was it too hard to tell because the fishes had eaten away their faces when you found them in the river the next day?"

He recoiled and his features twisted in hatred as he released a hiss. "You," he spat. "You're Oliver Haddox's sister." Her eyes glittered in reply. A look of unbelieving audacity crossed his face and glazed over his gaze. "You stupid, murderous bitch-" She spat viciously in his face at his words and in response he balled his fist and struck her across her already damaged chin. The blow wrenched a mammalian scream from her that rose above the noise of the battle around them. She arched her back under him and pressed her eyes shut as her mouth opened to its fullest to release her sobs.

The Brooklyn newsie straddling her torso released a hearty laugh. "My, tell my regards to Oliver that he has some gorgeous sluts in his keep." Angel wrestled with her soul to keep the tears that had welled in her eyes from flowing, yet she could not contain them. "What? The pretty little filly is crying?" His wicked smile broadened and his dark eyes glinted with amusement as his grip on her wrists tightened. He pressed the area where his legs united closer to her perspiration-coated chest. He lowered his head, pressing his nose to her shining hair that lay disheveled, fanned-out on the cobblestones, and inhaled deeply. "My, I wish you could be crying under different situations," he whispered into her ear, his breath hot and pungent.

A shutter wrought its way down her spine at the meaning of his words, yet she steadied her breathing and drew in a deep breath. She then released a shrill, audible shriek into the newsie's ear. He cried out in pain, releasing her wrists and covering his ears in a gesture of pain. Her features contorted in determination, she bucked furiously under him and rose, poised to grab her revolver and shoot his brains out. Yet, the Brooklyn newsie saw this motion and dropped his hands from his plagued ear, grasping the hilt of the gun over her hands just as she aligned it with his forehead.

Angel released a scream of frustration as he wrest the revolver out of her power, sending it in flight through the air and skidding across the cobblestones where it halted at the feet of a Midtowner and Brooklynite sparring each other with switches. The newsie turned once more to her; his eyes narrowed and countenance twisted with uncontrollable rage. As he swung at her once more, Angel ducked in a fluid motion and quickly tore at her trousers, ripping the upper right pant leg down the seam and fumbling to unsheathe her blade. She grasped the hilt and emancipated the blade, where it glimmered in the high noon sunlight. With a cry of war, she drove it towards his heart, yet he grasped the hilt. With a burst of power, Angel drew the blade up and slashed it across the flesh of his left cheek.

The newsie elicited a howl as he loosed his grip from the blade, placing a hand to the wound, the prismatic blood flowing between his fingers. His dark eyes turned to Angel, as he poised to swing at her once more, only to find that she had risen to her feet. Her breathing heavy and body aching, Angel balled her first tightly and presented the Brooklyn newsie with a stupendous right hook. He released yet another howl as his equilibrium dissipated, rendering him to fall to the cobblestones.

Her tirade with the newsie completed, she whirled about in a half-moon, searching amidst the feet of the warring newsies and blood-soaked cobblestones for her revolver. She espied it near the head of a fallen Brooklyn newsie with a broken beer bottle protruding from his chest. Angel picked up her heels and pushed through the masses.

The atmosphere had seemed to become even more sweltering. The heat soared due to the shouts that pierced the air, covering all in a thick-layer of perspiration. Angel weaved her way through out Brooklyn and Midtown newsies alike. Her garments hugged her body, adhered uncomfortably to her flesh by blood and sweat. Her hair rained down her back, matted to her skin, barely held in place by the tattered back ribbon. Her chin throbbed with a vengeance, yet she pushed on.

Just as she stooped to reach for her weapon, her arm outstretched, a stray blade slashed her upper right arm. She cried out in pain, dropping to her knees and bringing a palm to her severed flesh. As she bent, she felt a great weight upon her back that pushed her to the ground. When it was relieved, she looked to find that a Brooklyn newsie had fallen over her, his face mangled beyond recognition. She felt the angry bile rise in the back of her throat once more and began to choke, pushing herself quickly away from the hideous cadaver. She quickly snapped her head away, closing her eyes and covering her mouth with a hand as to suppress herself from retching right there.

When she had calmed the nausea somewhat, Angel rose to her feet, her eyes narrowed in determination and the revolver clutched tightly within her hand. There was only one way to end this brutal, bloody conflict. She stalked forward, her hard eyes panning the embattled newsies furiously, searching for him, hunting for him, the deep gash spilling blood freely and flowing down her arm, mixing with the sweat. She finally found him, his back to her, his hair catching the light and shining a dark gold.

As she approached him, she was overcome with lightheadedness. The passionate dreams that he had haunted her head with last night came roaring back with a vengeance. Her blood pulsed with an intrinsic heat, one not due to the smoldering heat of summer. And then she was standing directly behind Spot Conlon; the blood rushing from her head to places she wished it would not, as he stood with his back to her, poised to strike at Hal Halloran.

The poor, overweight newsie stood before Conlon, his eyes a light with fear and his voluminous flesh trembling as Conlon held a sharpened dagger in his direction. He reminded Angel of Flick; in the way, they stared in the face of death with such mortal fear. The mention of the red-headed newsie send a cold chill down her spine, but not enough to subdue the raging lust that pounded through her veins.

Conlon did not even realize that there was a presence behind him until Angel was pressed against his back, the revolver positioned against the back of his head, pushing aside his sweaty hair, and her right arm wrapped tightly around his neck, making him stationary. His dark blue shirt saturated with perspiration, pressed against her slick bare flesh where the corset did not cover, causing a heat to ignite between them. She felt him relax in her grasp and then go rigid against her as he felt the presence of the gun at his skull.

She brought her lips close to his ear, saying in a low voice, "Make them stop."

He only remained silent. Angel felt her temper begin to rise as she constricted her grip around his neck, clicking the trigger of the revolver and pressing the barrel harder into his head. "I said make them stop!" she growled.

Conlon still did not utter a word. He only lowered the blade he held in front of him, never once daring to move his head. Angel was intent on issuing her request for a third time when she felt the all-too familiar barrel of a gun being placed against the back of her head. Her breath bated painfully within her throat as an arm wound its way around her neck, much like the manner in which she held Conlon. A hand pushed her head upwards as fingers caressed her bruised chin.

"Well, well, well, look who I have the pleasure of meeting again." Her countenance darkened considerably as she took in the voice, her eyes narrowing in hatred. It was the words of the one whom had bestowed upon her the welt that adorned the lower half of her face. She heard the trigger of his gun click in her ears as he pressed it harder into her skull, causing her to wince in pain. "I suggest that you lower your gun from Spot's head if you don't want to get your brains blown out."

Angel felt her flesh turn a spectacular shade of red brought on by fury. She of course knew that she could twist out of the newsie's grip and lodge a bullet in his head and then turn and place one in Conlon's head before he even knew what had hit him. Yet, she refrained from doing so. She did not wish to spill more blood than had already been shed.

She brought her lips to Conlon's steady ear once more. "Tell them to stop for I will pull this trigger and have no regrets. I don't give a damn if I die, but I suggest you on the other hand do."

Conlon remained silent. Neither she nor the newsie behind her lowered their weapons. It was though they were in suspended animation.

Finally, an angry voice hissed behind Angel. "I told you to lower you gun, you bitch." She knew he was going to pull the trigger of his weapon when Conlon finally spoke.

"Put down your pistol, Shade." The words were soft, yet firm and authoritative. His voice seeped into Angel's ears, before working their way to her soul and twining around it. More of the dreams were unlocked. The voice that had haunted her mind at night. A shiver worked its way through her as she recalled the explicit dreams from the previous night. One dream in particular where Conlon had taken her on the docks behind the Brooklyn lodging house. He had whispered brutal sweet nothings in her ear with that same voice amidst the sounds of water lapping the dock while they copulated on the hard wood, all that she had ever assassinated watching them as an audience.

"But, Spot…," Shade countered, his vice growing tighter around Angel's slender neck.

"But nothing, Shade," Conlon hissed, turning over his shoulder somewhat so she could view his crystalline blue eye flashing in furor. "Drop your gun."

The newsie begrudgingly obeyed his superior as Angel felt the barrel being lowered from the back of her head. The fear she had experienced vanished, as her expression became shadowed. She applied more pressure to the revolver as her arm about his perspiration-slicked neck tightened. "Do it, do it now or else you die."

There was a pregnant pause, before a shrill whistle pierced the air. Its sound rose above the shouts and bellows of war. It ascended high and higher, reverberating off of the massive buildings and echoing down the breadth of the street. It was the catalyst of the sharp decrement of sound that followed.

The barrel of her revolver still pressed firmly against the leader of Brooklyn's head, Angel allowed her wary gaze to survey the surroundings, her head turning over her shoulder. At the beckoning of Conlon's whistle, Brooklyn had stopped. Halted in whatever motions they had been conducting. This show of authority had dazzled her senses for a moment, and this gave enough leeway for Conlon to escape from her grasp. This gesture brought her senses back to reality, and her gaze locked upon him in time to see him turn around.

There was a moment that passed between them, as they regarded each other unblinkingly. Angel felt her blood heat as she once more peered into the azure eyes that had emblazoned themselves disgustingly in her mind in her night notions. She read the utter shock in them as they widened to their entirety as Spot Conlon finally distinguished that he had passionately kissed none other than Oliver Haddox's sister in a state of heated bliss the previous night.

It was the face that tormented her mind against her will; though now strands of his dirty blond hair were matted to his brow as beads of sweat trickled down his face to his mouth that was open in incredulity. His eyes roamed quickly over her face, as though he was trying to convince himself otherwise. His brows furrowed and he finally softly hissed, "You!"

Angel's full lips parted as she stumbled back, her revolver held lax at her side, unable to respond for a sandy, sarcastic voice soon resonated over the eerie silence that had fallen like a shroud.

"Spot! Please don't think me a terrible host. A thousand apologies for not being able to greet you before hand!" She knew the voice without even thinking twice. It was Oliver. Her brother. He had finally made an appearance.  
Angel followed the gaze of Conlon and the gazes of all others who stood on the blood-soaked avenue to the doorway of the warehouse. He stood within the threshold, a sadistic smile baring his yellowed teeth and his dark eyes glittering maliciously, betraying the smile. In his grasp, as though to sickeningly accent his last word, he held a severed human hand. He then flung the appendage down the steps where it landed on the cobblestones and next to a thin newsie, a Brooklyn newsie, who sat hunched over, holding the stump where his left hand had once been.

Angel grew weak from the nausea that rode through her, and willed herself not to disgorge her guts as a few of the Brooklyn newsies were doing. Behind her, she could feel the crackling heat spill from Conlon without even turning around.

"Oliver, you bastard." Conlon's voice was strained and raw, as though that was the only line he could manage. Though, laced within his tones was something deeper, a weakness, an exhaustion as though he could burst into sobs from what havoc Oliver constantly wrought upon him.

A mock frown passed over Oliver's mouth, though his eyes danced with sheer amusement. "Me? A bastard?" He shook his head slightly, pressing a finger to his lips. "No, my mother was wed to my father when I was born." He cast his eyes to Conlon, and they caught the light, shimmering like cold chips of glass. "Though, I don't know if I can say the same for your mother-" Angel briefly closed her eyes, inwardly wincing at the remark her brother had directed at the leader of Brooklyn. It had been horribly degrading, though she knew it had done its duty by the white fury she felt radiating from Conlon.

"You bastard! You incredible fucking bastard!" Conlon screeched in a wild voice, quickly brushing past Angel, his dagger bared to strike at Oliver. As a reflex, Angel held her arm out and caught his elbow, halting him and expeditiously placing the barrel of her revolver to his left temple, cocking the trigger.

Conlon stood beside her, his face alive with a deep red and his blue eyes burning. His shoulders heaved as his breath fell heavily from his mouth, the rage quickly pulsing through his blood. Though, as he realized his current standing, his skin dropped to a pale white, as his exhalations became shallow.

Angel's clutch on the crook of his clammy elbow became tighter as her eyes fell to him and as she followed his gaze to where her brother stood. Oliver regarded his nemesis with unfettered superiority. He held his hand aloft, motioning towards Angel. "Spot, of course you must know my sister. If you hadn't realized she's the one to your left ready to place a bullet into your head if you take one more step towards me," he snarled.

Conlon turned his narrowed eyes slightly in her direction, his cheeks burning crimson. "So I've had the pleasure of meeting her," he murmured.

Her skin blanched at his comment, and she prayed no one had overheard.

Oliver casually descended the steps to the sidewalk and listlessly swaggered into the street, Midtown and Brooklyn parting for him alike. He held a burning stare with Conlon as he approached him. "'Tis a pity I missed the genesis of this lovely get-together. We must have another one," he mocked, pacing before Conlon.

Conlon clenched his jaw, watching Oliver in sheer hatred as he held his carriage perfectly still. "Yes, Oliver, we must. And then I will kill you once and for all."

Oliver widened his eyes as his lips curled into a simper. He halted in front of Conlon. "Oh, you mustn't mean that, Spot!"

Angel's glance was fixated onto her brother's as he and Conlon intently locked gazes. Though he was putting on false airs, she could read his true emotions and knew that he was about to break. Against all logical reasoning, she leaned into Conlon, putting her lips to his ear. "Don't say anything!" she whispered.

This action must have taken Conlon by surprise, for he shifted his gaze from Oliver to Angel, turning in her direction. Angel grew bewildered by his gesture and immediately lowered her revolver from his head, only to have Oliver quickly draw his pistol and place it against Conlon's other temple. Conlon sharply turned his head back to have Oliver's sharp, angular face only a few inches from his, his dark eyes burning into his soul. "I suggest that you refrain from listening to my sister's sweet nothings and instead pay heed to me. We will have another get together, yet this time I do not think it will be for tea. It will be end this once and for all. To decimate Brooklyn once and for all."

Chills flushed through Angel as she regarded the two leaders' profiles. She viewed Conlon's eyes narrow in hate, as his sweat-coated muscles tensed. "Don't you mean 'Decimate Midtown once and for all?'"

Oliver issued a wild laugh as he stepped away from Conlon, lowering his pistol. "All right, O Decimator of Midtown, when would you like to have this tea party?"

Conlon's searing glare followed Oliver as he strode in a half-circle around him. "In a week. That will all be decided at a war-council-"

"A war-council?"

"A war-council," Conlon finished firmly. "Held tomorrow night. Name a spot."

Oliver cocked a brow and brought his fingers to his chin, as though deep in thought. His eyes shifted to Angel. "Dear sister, where do you suggest we have this tea party with the fair Mr. Conlon?"

Angel was silent as she stumbled back to the sidewalk, off the cobblestones. Her words caught in her throat as she realized that set of burning blue eyes were settled upon her. Oliver returned his attention to Conlon. "Just as I thought. The Hideaway Tavern."

Conlon's features twisted into revulsion as he stepped back. "No way in hell, Haddox. Everyone and their mother knows the Hideaway is in the middle of your territory."

Oliver tilted his head, must like a bird would, strands of his slovenly hair falling over his brow. "All right, fair enough. Care to make the call."

The Brooklyn leader nodded his head. "Tibby's."

Oliver reeled back, a grin creeping over his face. He turned over his shoulder, his amused expression expanding to his newsies, causing them to release moronic laughter. He turned back to Conlon. "Tibby's? So I'd wager that little Cowboy and his friends will be joining us?"

Conlon nodded solemnly once more, his blazing cheeks betraying his countenance. "I only naturally assumed that the swine you know by the names of Rylie and Horance Lyner would be joining you."

Her brother's eyes glittered in the sunlight as a wicked smile played across his thin, cracked lips. "Yes, I guess they will. But as it is known to all Tibby's is in Manhattan and you'd have the upper hand wouldn't you?" He did not wait for Conlon's reply. "It'll be on neutral grounds. Gulliver's."

"Gulliver's Inn. In the Bronx." Conlon echoed.

Oliver nodded deeply. "Gulliver's Inn. In the Bronx. We shall meet at dusk. Bring no more than ten. Don't bring any weapons, you will be unarmed at the door. There, we will discuss the preparations for our little tea party."

Conlon narrowed his eyes at Oliver's smirk. "Shouldn't you be telling yourself that bullshit, Haddox? I have my own rule."

Oliver's eyes widened. "Yes?"

The Brooklyn sovereign's took on a deathly serious appearance. "If I find one more body in the river in the mornings, at all, I swear to all that is holy and pure in this world I will decimate you and Midtown. Do you understand?"

Oliver cocked a brow. "I understand. But do the others agree?" He shifted her gaze to Angel, who stood still between two hulking Midtown newsies. "Angel?"

She felt ill, as all eyes appeared to fall upon her, in particular a set of electric blue ones. "Yes," she whispered breathlessly.

"Nero?" Her brother turned to his left, where Nero Night dutifully stood.

"Agreed."

Oliver looked over Conlon's shoulder to where his second in command, White Wilson, stood, bruised and bloody.

"Wilson?"

"Agreed," he muttered hatefully under his breath.

His dancing eyes fell once more to the leader. "Spot?"

"Agreed," he hissed, Angel flinching at the amount of venom in his voice.

A smile spread across Oliver's lips his teeth a violent yellow shade in the light. "So it's all settled. No I bid you and your little girls a fond farewell until tomorrow."

Conlon glared spitefully at Angel's kin as he turned about face slowly, his sharp whistle once more piercing the air.

As a clearly defeated Brooklyn picked up their heavy heels in preparation to sojourn to their district, Oliver ended on a final note. "Oh, and Spot? If it isn't too much trouble would you mind taking your slaughtered newsies with you? The wild dog infestation here is God-awful and we wouldn't want them hovering around the warehouse, eating the rotting carcasses, now would we?" Angel's eyes watched the Brooklyn leader, as what appeared to be a myriad of emotions surged through him. Slowly, the survivors gathered the dead in their grasps, intent on returning and bestowing them with a proper blessing in attempt to wash away the hideous manner in which they had been slain.  
Angel could only stand, awe-struck on the sidewalk as the noon sun slid lower into the sky as afternoon dawned. As Brooklyn walked slowly down the street, as though participating in a funeral march, their elongated shadows stretched out on the blood-varnished cobblestones.

The last figure to disappear as the street crested into a hill was that of a boy with a stuttered gait, slumped shoulders, and hair that caught the sun like burnished gold. She released a low sigh, her posture reciprocating his, as she watched him disappear over the small hill.

Angel then turned and lethargically approached the door to the warehouse, meshing with the massive, sweat-stained Midtown newsies. Their voices rose into great cries of victory and chatter as electricity buzzed around them, affecting them all save Angel. As she ascended the stairs to the threshold, one placed a heavy hand on her shoulder, shouting in a booming bass into her ear, "So what'dya think of that, Angel?"

She quickly halted, drawing her revolver that she had tucked in her waistband and snapping his hand off of her. She pointed the gun at his head, her gray eyes flashing with rage. "If you ever touch me like that again, I'll blow your fucking head off."

Mock surprise washed over the newsie's shiny face as he stepped back, raising his hands up in front of him. The others within range of hearing all issued forth oohs. "So sorry, Miss Haddox. Didn't mean nothing by it." He smiled boorishly at her as she quickly turned with an exasperated sigh and continued to climb the stairs, only to have her hindquarters smacked with his strong hand.

She bit her tongue, fighting the blue epithets that clung to the tip of it and the urge to turn around and sock him across the face. Instead, she angrily entered the shady warehouse, a fury crackling off her. As she was about to go up the flight of stairs that lead to the first floor, she noticed Flynn leaning against the banister, a soiled cloth held to his nose by a hand. She broke away from the reeking newsies as they bombarded up the stairs as she stepped closer to Flynn. He took her by the shoulder and gently pushed her out of the masses.

Angel's features calmed as she regarded his face. His intense eyes stared up at her from the bloodied cloth, his flaxen hair sullied with filth, sweat, and blood.

A smile crossed her lips. "My, you look charming." She motioned towards his nose.

Flynn rolled his flashing eyes. "I don't think I can say the same for you." Angel issued a slight gasp at what her appearance must be like.

She planned to retort to his wry statement, yet their attention was drawn to the door that had been thrown off its hinges. Oliver stuck his head in the doorway, his fingers grasping the sides. "Hey, everybody!" he hollered in a lifting voice. "Drinks at the Hideaway! On me!"

Joyous shouts immediately permeated the air as the newsies who had just thundered up the stairway thundered right back down. The boards moaned viciously under their combined weight and dust and bits of plaster fell from the underbelly of the stairs. Flynn and Angel had to hold their hands to their ears, releasing them only after the ruckus had passed.

She turned to Flynn and rolled her eyes. "Christ Almighty, sometimes I can't tell the difference if Oliver's a newsie leader or a zookeeper."

Flynn stifled his laughter as Angel released an exhausted exhalation and turned towards the now vacant stairs. "I don't know about you, Flynn, but I'm beat." She continued up the stairs, her feet dragging, until Flynn dashed to the terminus of them.

"Angel!" he called, his voice somewhat muffled by the cloth.

"Hum?" she asked, turning over her shoulder, a shaft of sunlight highlighting her slovenly hair.

"What did Spot mean when he said he had the pleasure of meeting you before?"

The question took Angel by sheer surprise. So much so, that her breath bated and she froze, the temperature in the room drastically dropping though it was scorching out. The memory that accompanied the answer to the question made her queasy with hotness as she recalled the dreams. She could not possibly respond that she had heatedly kissed the leader of Brooklyn. She would be crucified.

And she did not. She only turned and vanished up the stairs, leaving Flynn at the bottom, confusion and suspicion mixed within the irises of his emerald eyes.


	9. Chapter 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

Despite the sweltering nature the morning had possessed, night was refreshingly cool. The sun had just settled in the west for a bout of slumber and clear darkness had fallen, rendering the cold stars prominent in the sky. Gusts of winds travailed about, subduing the threatening return of the heat.

One such gust slipped through the window that Angel had cracked before she went to bed. It brought a slight howling noise with it as it fluttered about the third floor of the warehouse. Its chill caused gooseflesh to appear on her skin as she lay on the forsaken mattress, tossing and turning in restless sleep.

She elicited a soft cry in her slumber as a cold sweat washed over her, kindled by the cool breeze. She tossed restlessly on the mattress, the moth- eaten sheet that covered her becoming twisted with her legs in the motion. Her back arched slightly as she twisted to her side, her hair, pale silver in the moonlight, becoming askew.

As odd as the notion was, Angel could not sleep at night. After nearly half a dozen years of assassinations under the face of the moon, she had become accustomed to slumbering away the beginnings of the next day. Perhaps the light from the sun had kept her dark nightmares at bay, or perhaps she hadn't given a damn at the grisly acts that she had performed at her brother's whim. At any rate, the night offered her no solace. Its darkness crept into the cavities of her mind and released their brutal workings. The nightmares she experienced now made her long for death.

Besides the hideous deaths of all she had ever slain replaying themselves in candid, vivid details once again, she also witnessed her own fate. She was in the First Ring of the Seventh Circle of Hell, yet instead of having the fate of spending eternity in a river of boiling blood, what she was to experience everlastingly was far more hideous. She was on her knees, utterly disheveled and trembling, her head bowed and flaxen hair reflecting the flames that licked about her. Before her stood Spot Conlon, proud and erect. His blue eyes dancing with intrinsic flames and shadows of the Underworld setting off the smooth crevices of his set face, his right arm was outstretched at a downward angle towards Angel's crown. In his grasp he held her revolver, its ebony hue glowing a hell-fire red. Her revolver that had ended the short lives of all that she had slain stood in a ring about them. They were living cadavers, all disgustingly mutilated with Angel's signet of a bullet hole to the head, coated with dark red blood that glittered prismatically in the light, and all in different stages of decay.

They watched on, ecstasy and orgiastic elation on their ghastly faces and crackling in the air around them as they regarded the murderess who had shot them all finally getting her comeuppance.

Angel only stared at the ground, the ground that was charred and barren saturated with undiluted evil. She could not stare at anything else for she was paralyzed with complete and utter fear. Immortal fear. Her mind could not comprehend the terror that passed through her blood, chilling it. Her tongue twisted when she tried to translate it into words. It struck more than her heart; it struck her soul and bound itself around the sacred vessel. It was an ironic moment, for even though she was fully conscious of the heinous acts she committed she had always prayed to Jesus Christ that He would save her soul and place her in Heaven with the ones she had killed.

O, how foolish she had been. It was the ultimate revenge. They stood around her, the air heavy with lust, as they watched as Conlon cocked the trigger of her revolver. Her eyes shut tighter, as she held back the bitter tears and the absolute terror that surged through her. She was experiencing the pure, unbridled terror that her victims had felt in the last moments of their life. And who more fitting then to assume her role as assassin than Spot Conlon?

She heard her victims' murmurs rise to fever pitch as Conlon pulled the trigger and the bullet lodged itself into her head. And then nothing. Darkness blacker than pitch. Not a sound in the air. And then the darkness brightened somewhat and the murmurs returned and her eyes opened. She stared at the ground, the ground that was charred and barren and saturated with undiluted evil. Her mind choked back a sob as her fate finally dawned upon her in its entirety.

The clicking of the trigger rang in her ear. It was not fitting that she should have to endure what her multitude of victims had endured only once. Nay, she was to endure it for the rest of eternity.

Angel awoke with an audible gasp; her gray eyes opened to their entirety, and a cold sweat covering her flesh. She drew herself into a sitting position, her breathing labored. Running a hand through her perspiration- slicked hair, she dare not close her eyes at the recollection of the ghastly nightmare. She bit back a sob and fought the tears that welled in the creases of her eyes as she battled to steady her breathing.

Darkness encompassed the room, bringing the shadows to life, save the soft light of the full moon that filtered in through the window. A coldness hung heavy in the air, chilling her to the marrow of her bones.

Angel furiously rubbed her upper arms with her palms in attempt that the friction would bring about some heat. It was an act that kept her mind from wandering the heinous dream that had ravaged her psyche enough as it was.

Her eyes glanced around the room as the tears dissipated. "I didn't think I had opened the window that much," she murmured, noting the cold, bringing herself wearily to her feet.

Her unfocused eyes to the floor and a hand still rubbing an arm absentmindedly, she slowly shuffled to the window. As she approached it, a frigid blast of air hit her, breaking her reverie and sending her tangles of hair flying behind her like a flag whipping in the wind. She dropped her arm to her side as she averted her gaze upward to the window.

She was astonished to find that, unlike the mere inch or so she had cracked it before she retired for the night, the pane of glass was pushed up as far as it would go, granting the cool summer zephyrs egress to the third floor. The dark dream was lost for a moment as bewilderment washed over her as she stepped closer to the window.

"What the hell?" she whispered, incredulity laced within her tone. Her hands reaching for the pane of glass, she was prepared to close the window once more when a feeling of dread slithered down her spine. She halted; her breathing abated, and slowly turned her head to the right.

What Angel espied caused her to elicit a gasp, place a hand to her mouth, and turn around, flattening her back against the open window. A darkened silhouette of a human was emerging from the shadowed corner, its face indistinguishable until it stepped into a bar of moonlight filtered from the window.

Her eyes widened and she sharply, painfully inhaled as she regarded the intruder's face. Spot Conlon, the leader of Brooklyn, stood before her. He was still garbed in the same clothing that he had worn previously that morning during the rumble, though his physique retained none of its nobility that would have been assumed to him. His lanky stature was now weary as his shoulders were rounded. The shadows only intensified the haggard expression that adorned his visage; intensified the utter exhaustion. The crystalline eyes no longer bore any sign of glint. They were vacant and lifeless.

Unable to bridle her absolute shock, Angel relied on the innate reaction that occurred anytime an intruder crept into her room. She quickly fell to her haunches and launched herself to her mattress, which she landed on sprawled on her stomach. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Conlon fluidly spring towards her as she furiously reached under her pillow for the revolver. Her pulse racing violently, she grasp the hilt in her clutches, only to have the tattered pillow take flight as Conlon's booted foot sent it across the room.

Angel released a sound, a hybrid of a sigh and a whimper, as she cocked the trigger, her panic incrementing with each passing moment, as she fumbled to align it with his head. Though, Conlon brought his boot down hard upon her hands and fingers, causing her to issue a shriek of agony. She quickly released the weapon and brought her hands to her chest, curling into a fetal position on the mattress.

She knew that he had wrest power of the revolver as she heard the trigger click for a second time. At the sound, she immediately froze, her eyes squeezed together and her heart in her mouth.

"Get up." His voice was colder than winter's chill, tones of hatred and exhaustion underlying it.

Angel tacitly obeyed, her eyes still shut. She assumed a kneeling position and opened her eyes expecting to see the barrel of the revolver aligned point-blank at her skull. She released a slight gasp as her eyes fell to Conlon. He had turned away from her, the revolver at his side in a lax grasp, as he was pressed against the window, staring out into the night. The light of the moon shone upon his face and an expression of sadness, of remembrance. After a moment of reverie, he turned to her, his skin pale and hair silver in the light. "Nine. Nine of them."

Angel remained silent, still, not comprehending what he was mumbling. She regarded him unwaveringly, her carriage erect as she knelt on the unforgiving mattress. It was an elaborate posture, assumed to suppress the waves of fear that washed over her.

Conlon's unblinking stare and abstract countenance then vanished as though a shadow passed over his face. In their place, he wore a hideous mask of pain; his lips twisted into a sneer and his eyes glittering like blue fire. In a stealth motion, he fell to his knees on the mattress before Angel. Before she could react, he had taken one hand and plunged it into her hair, gripping it hard and tugging it until her scalp burned and tears welled in her eyes. His face only a few inches from hers, he held the revolver aloft and placed the tip against her left temple, the cool barrel pressed against the side of her face.

The absolute fear paralyzed her as she watched the revolver out of the corner of her eye. Conlon gave the fist-full of hair he held a sharp tug and Angel cried out in pain, falling to her elbows, fighting with every essence of her being to halt the tears. He brought his face close to hers; the grip on her hair causing her to shake from the rage coursing through him that made him tremble. "Did Oliver think he was smart?" Angel began to convulse from the slight sobs that raked her. Conlon brutally pulled her shining hair, causing her to cry out. "Did he think he was smart?" He exhaled sharply, his breath tainted with hard liquor and nicotine blasting her cheek. "Did he think that he think that he was so smart as to have one of his whores come to my party and try to seduce me and then kill me? Does he think I'm that pathetic? Did he think he could just kill me like that?"

Angel's weeping abruptly halted at the hideous word of the profession that had always followed at her heels like a nightmare if Oliver were to ever tire of her being his assassin. Her body grew ridged and her eyes narrowed as a red hate surged through her veins. "I can answer yes to all of your questions, you son of a bitch. If my memory serves me correct, was it not I, my brother's so-called whore, who was straddling you in a chair, you at my mercy. I could have slit your throat right then and there. Though, I thought I would have the honor of killing the fearless leader of Brooklyn. Not some quivering mess on the verge of tears."

The hard, malicious lines that were etched upon Conlon's visage soon smoothed away to reveal his soft, handsome features once more. His eyes lost some of their blaze as his lips parted. He stared at her unblinkingly, Angel's breathing racing for want of the knowledge to know what had brought on this sudden change in expression. His grip on her tresses loosed as he raised himself to his knees once more. A grim smile passed over his mouth as his gaze flickered to the revolver and then to Angel, his visage half- masked by shadows.

"Some quivering mess on the verge of tears." Angel was unsure whether the glint in his eyes was cause of the moonlight or tears brimming in the creases. "A quivering mess. You'd be a goddamn quivering mess too if each morning you found one of your friends in the river with a bullet hole in their head. You'd be a quivering mess too if in the stinking hot sun you had to carry nine, nine, of the people you'd grown up with all you life back, dead. Dead. And your opponent had none die. None. Gavin. Mickey. Paul. Zero. Duke. Blackjack. Caprice. Max. Dodger. All dead. All gone." His eyes burned into her soul, as did his moving words. They were full of utter hurt and agony that was unfathomable. Tears involuntarily came to Angel as she silently, disgustingly, thought of which Brooklyn newsie named she had carelessly slain.

Conlon fell silent as he closed his eyes, as though in remembrance to those who had died so brutally at the hands of Oliver. He caressed the revolver, and Angel watched this gesture, as his eyes once more opened. They flashed with anger. "But look here. I can shoot your brains out right here and now." He lined the weapon with Angel's forehead as she lay on bent knees and elbows on the mattress, her strands of her disheveled hair falling in front of her vision. "Though, I thought I would have the honor of killing Oliver Haddox's most prized assassin. Not some quivering mess on the verge of tears."

Angel squeezed her eyes shut as she felt her being suddenly numb. Whether it was from utter fear or the absolute truth in his wisdom, she could not decipher. The notion was not so incredulous: she and Conlon were alike. They shared a powerful reputation under a false appellation, their true name kept close to their hearts, unwilling to show their true nature. They had both created a façade, a façade that appeared crack-proof and faultless from an onlooker's perspective. They both were creatures of fear and blood, polar opposites in their allegiances. Yet, here they were, raw and stripped- down to their barest emotions and shedding tears to the one they were to hate with undying passion. It only seemed fitting.

She finally opened her eyes, steel-gray eyes rimmed with red, and gave him her most courageous countenance. The soft moonlight reflected off the tears that lined her cheeks. "Go ahead, shoot me. I'll scream." She desperately tried to maintain a steady rhythm with her voice. "They'll hear me. They'll find you and blow your head off even before you step out of the shadow of the warehouse. Even if you do escape, they'll enter your precious district and burn Brooklyn to the ground and kill every last one of you."

A grim smirk crossed Conlon's mouth as he rose slowly to his feet, the mattress fluxing under his weight. He never broke Angel's gaze, only allowed his arm to grow taunt as he kept the revolver aligned with her brow. "Will they really, now?"

Angel gazed past the barrel of the revolver and into his burning eyes. "I don't give a damn if I die, but I suggest you on the other hand do."

His mocking simper broadened as he lowered the gun. His lips parted, as he was poised to utter a remark to her. Angel saw this as her sole chance to wrest her revolver out of his power. With a shriek, she brought a leg out from under her and extended it. In a fluid motion it connected with an unsuspecting Conlon's hands. The sheer surprise of the impact caused his eyes to widen and grip to loosen on the revolver, the tip of her foot sending it in flight across the darkened room where it landed with a clatter in a mass of shadows.

Conlon elicited a growl as he fell to his haunches and lunged at Angel on the mattress. A shrill cry issued forth from her lips as she quickly rolled off the mattress and onto the splintered floorboards. Conlon landed on the mattress with a soft thud, the last remnants of moldy feathers that filled the mattress wafting into the air from the impact.

Angel's eyes flickered to his to see his burning gaze upon her as he drew himself from the mattress. Her heart pounding in her chest, she assumed a sitting position, her eyes locked upon his. As he advanced towards her, she blindly reached to her right upper thigh. She groped under the material until she felt the sheathed blade that was kept bound to her thigh. Fumbling, she awkwardly unsheathed it just as Conlon lunged for her. On impulse, she raised her legs to the sky just as he took flight, the soles of her feet settling on his lower torso. With a heave, she pushed her legs towards her head, sending a bewildered Conlon over her head to where he hit the floor with great cacophony.

Not daring to turn around to regard where he had fallen, Angel fell to her hands and knees, the blade clasped in one hand, and pulled herself away from him, the splinters of the floorboards digging into her palms. Crystalline tears streaming freely down her face, she felt her body begin to break down as the mortal terror began to consume her. She could finally crawl no longer and she halted, bringing her brow to the floorboards. Her pale silver hair falling around her face, she pounded the fist the clutched the blade in furiously against the ground, allowing the sobs to overpower her.

She soon felt Conlon's strong hands blindly groping her legs, pulling her back towards him. He flipped her easily onto her back, pinning either of her wrists to the floor with his hands, as he placed one bent knee between her legs and the other near her right hip. Angel turned her head away from him, not being able to look at him. He emancipated one of her wrists so that he could remove the glittering dagger from her grasp. She turned her face towards him at this action, and lashed out, bucking violently under him and bringing her free arm across her body to gain control of her sole remaining weapon.

Yet, Conlon easily brought the blade to his mouth, clenching it between his teeth as he once again pinned her to the ground, slamming her wrists above her head. Angel regarded him, her body and soul trembling with undiluted hatred. He was suspended over her, his perspiration-slicked face but a few inches from hers, slovenly strands of hair falling across his brow. His features were set and his eyes blazed with a passion. In an expeditious motion, he spat the blade from his mouth so that it landed away from Angel's reach. She turned her head to where the weapon had fallen with a distant clatter. It had landed in a bar of moonlight that filtered in through the open window, glimmering in the beams.

"Sorry, doll, but you already used that line on me." Angel sharply snapped her head to observe Conlon. Not allowing her time to respond, he continued. "You've got me all wrong, Ms. Haddox. I thought you at least knew something after that hot little number we shared." He released a soft laugh and applied more pressure to her body as she writhed furiously under him. "But you don't." The simper that had brightened his features soon vanished, leaving him with the pathetic, sorrowful expression that he had worn when she had first seen him that night. Angel immediately halted in her attempts to escape, startled by the sudden change in demeanor.

He brought his softened gaze to hers as his eyes roamed hers. "No, you got it all wrong. Out of all people I thought that you would get it right." His grip on her loosed somewhat as his head bowed, his voice overcome with emotion. "You have it backwards. I don't give a damn if I die, yet you do." She swore she could feel a lone tear fall to the hollow of her neck.

Angel's eyes narrowed. "And just how in the hell do you conclude-"

He sharply raised his head, and her suspicions were confirmed. His jaw was clenched in mammalian pain as his eyes glittered with unshed tears that he desperately tried to suppress. "Because I can see it. I can see it in your eyes. I saw it in your eyes today. I saw fear in your eyes. You're not one of them. You want more. But your scared shitless." His eyes utterly burned into hers. "Scared shitless. You want to die in this life you created for yourself, you don't know who the hell you've become. But you don't die because you think somehow you can always go back to the past, that the future will be brighter-"

The laments that she had suppressed for too long were ignited once more at the absolute candor of his words. Her body convulsed under him as she turned her head away blinded by tears, not being able to face him. She need not inquire how he had read her person so correctly-he had spoken for himself, also.

Just as when they had shared the fiery kiss, it had not been of pure, unbridled lust but of longing, of needing for comprehension of why their souls were in so much turmoil. And now, as they both wept uncontrollably of how hideous their lives were, if did not matter if he was indeed Spot Conlon, leader of Brooklyn, and hated enemy of her brother. It was a potentially odd way to release fettered emotions, and that the electricity between them did just.

Alas, over the sonority of the tears came a rapping at the door. Angel immediately froze, her sobs halting and breath bating in her throat as a cold fear washed over her. Conlon's grip had fallen lax on her wrists.

"Angel? Angel? Are you all right in there?" Angel inhaled painfully. It was Flynn's voice. She quickly locked gazes with Conlon, who reciprocated in her widened eyes.

"Yeah, Flynn, I'm fine!" she shouted, her voice broken, as her eyes lingered on Conlon.

There was a pause on Flynn's side of the doorway before he responded, "No, you're not, Angel? What the hell is with your voice! Open the door."

Conlon rose to his knees as Angel replied. "Flynn, I'm fine! I was sleeping until you came and woke me up!"

"Angel, you're not fine, now open the door," he replied, his voice hard.

Angel rose to her feet as Conlon had, and regarded him warily as he stood still, a beam of moonlight washing over him. "Jesus Christ, Flynn, I said I'm fine now go!"

"Angel. Angel, you're not fine now open the door. Open the goddamn door, Angel!" She elicited a low gasp and directed her eyes towards the darkened door to the third floor as Flynn began to throw his weight against it. Panic-stricken, she turned sharply towards Conlon only to find that he was beside her, his mouth near her ear. His hot breath entering her canal, he whispered, "There's still time."

She turned him, her eyes wide and lips a gap, not comprehending his cryptic statement. He only smiled a mysterious smile, as though to assure that things would be all right, the light of the moon playing upon his features and causing his dark eyes to dazzle.

Angel jumped and turned as Flynn threw himself against the door once more, the measly plank of rotted wood shuttering under his weight. She averted her eyes from the door and turned to Conlon once more, yet only found that he had vanished, leaving only in his wake the open window that granted the cool breezes to entrance to the third floor. She elicited a gasp and dashed over to the window, placing her hands on the sill, and peered out into the night, her hair tossing behind her. In the blackened street down below, where the massacre of the districts had taken place that morning, she saw a shadow figure running at break-neck speed. If she listened carefully enough, she could hear his heavy shoes connecting with the cobblestones and ringing out into the world. As she watched him, his words came to her once more, though she could not make sense of them for the life of her.  
It was only when Conlon had crested over the hill in the street, disappearing and Flynn had finally succeeded in breaking down the door, causing it so splinter to pieces, that she understood the true extent of his wisdom.

There's still time. There's still time. There's still time to save your soul.

Involuntarily, tears came to her and cascaded freely down her already stinging cheeks as she stared out into the empty avenue.

There's still time to save your soul, Helena Haddox. There's still time. That dream doesn't have to be your fate.

She broke down even harder as she rested her lower arms on the sill and clutched her head within her clammy hands.

Flynn's footsteps caused the boards to creak as he approached her, warily. "Angel?" he asked quietly, reaching out a hand to her.

Angel suppressed her tears and slightly raised her head from her hands, a red hatred brimming over her.

"Angel?" he inquired gently once more, advancing towards her.

Stealthily, Angel straightened, her countenance twisted in rage and her eyes burning. She inched towards the warped bureau that was a few paces towards the window, her back arched and gaze never leaving him. She rifled blindly on the surface of the piece of furniture, finding a small trinket and clutching it firmly in her grasp.

"Why can't you just mind your own fucking business, Flynn?" she shrieked, her voice made raw by tears, as she bent her arm back and launched the object furiously at Flynn. He ducked, his gaze following the object, as it sailed over his head, landing in a darkened corner of the room.

He cast his gaze to Angel once more, his expression that of wild bewilderment, and straightened. He was silent for a moment, before his sonorous voice ripped the cool air. "Angel, what in the name of Jesus Christ has come over you?"

Angel regarded him as a heavy silence hung between them, regarded him as his bare chest lurched with each harsh breath he inhaled.

There's still time to save your soul. Helena, there's still time.

His darkened form was soon made blurry and distorted by the tears that found their way to her tired eyes once more. The sobs returned with a vengeance, wrecking her soul, and causing her to become weak. She released the sill as she collapsed slowly to the ground, her legs curled under her. She buried her tear-streaked face within her hands as her shoulder blades shook uncontrollably as she released the agonizing pain that had built up within her soul.

Flynn called out her name in grand surprise as he crossed the room and fell beside her, placing a hand on her quaking shoulder. Angel raised her visage and looked into Flynn's emerald green eyes flooding over with worry. "Flynn, Flynn, do something with me," she choked.

"Anything, Angel," he softly whispered breathlessly, moving closer to her.

Silently, Angel brought her slender hands to his, entwining their fingers together. Angel looked at him just as he cast his wide eyes to her in surprise.

"Pray with me, Flynn." Flynn remained silent at her request. Her soft marred by tears voice finding itself weak at first, filled the cool room, though grew confident with sound as she tightly closed her red-rimmed eyes. "Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day, our daily bread and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who have trespassed on us. Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil for Thine is the Kingdom and the Power and the Glory forever and ever. Amen."

Her eyes remaining closed, she gently applied pressure to Flynn's hands for him to join her. She soon began a second round, his voice sparingly joining her with the unfamiliar words. "Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day, our daily bread and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who have trespassed on us. Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil for Thine is the Kingdom and the Power and the Glory forever and ever. Amen."

On the third chorus, her voice, sweet and soaring as she spoke the hallowed words, was joined by his, unsure and wary, in unison. They parleyed, basking in the light of the full moon, eyes closed and the light rendering their flesh and hair a shade of silver as so they almost looked ethereal.

It was a sacred moment for one of them, at least. The one who wished above all else to shed the ugly cocoon she had bound her true being in and to emerge transformed as a fantastical, beautiful creature. The other, who did not have any barriers holding him down, did not know any other way of life and in that he could not appreciate the prayer.

Yet, Flynn's voice never wavered, and he spoke in a low accompaniment to Angel's passionate voice full of tears all through the night, until the moonlight they sat in was changed to sunlight. Until Angel's voice left her from sheer exhaustion and she fell into a deep slumber.

Flynn pulled her close, her head resting against his bare chest, his back against the splintered wall below the window. He sighed, his expression blank, though his eyes reflected the weariness he felt.

The sun was awakening in the east, and the first pale slivers of sunlight were finding their way in through the open window. Flynn exhaled and settled against the wall, Angel's head slipping from his chest and falling to his lap, where she remained sound asleep.

He regarded the assassin with unabashed wonder. The dim bars of light reflected off her fall of hair, causing it to glow like burnished gold. She was beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. An absolutely beautiful assassin.

He snorted at the notion. She sure the hell was a complex character. He had only been in Oliver's services for the past four years and had grown mighty close to Angel Haddox. Close enough to call her his closest friend in the world if he had any. Yet, he was a highly in demand assassin, at least he was before Oliver hired him to partner with his sister.

Flynn lowered his gaze and regarded her once more, deep in slumber, and the tears remaining on her cheeks glittering in the light. His closest friend. Yet, he knew nothing about her. Absolutely nothing.

Not even her true name.


	10. Chapter 8

CHAPTER EIGHT

The heavy summer showers had passed, willing the sun into hiding. The sky was raw, its shade the color of slate. A thick fog hung in the air like a shroud, so heavy that one could inhale and feel the vapors slide down the trachea and settle in the lungs. An overpowering dampness clung to the mist, rendering the atmosphere to retain the glassy, glittery appearance that occurred only at the end of a rain.

The slight zephyrs of the previous night had quickly progressed into quick- tempered winds at the wake of a thunderstorm that quelled the semi-drought the area had been experiencing courtesy of the breathless summer sun.

This absolute about-face in weather and the added factor that one was rendered nearly blind in the oppressing fog left many not to travail the streets of Brooklyn that late afternoon. The only sounds on the Brooklyn Bridge were the quick fall of footsteps of Angel Haddox and Nero Night.

The latter walked ahead of the former, her steps short, intense eyes watchful, and head jerking sporadically about.

Angel snorted. It was some stroke of irony; as though nature was playing a cruel ruse upon them. They had left the warehouse that morning completely cloaked and hooded, poised to skirt the darkened back alleys as to not arouse suspicion. Yet, here they were in full guise and Angel could not even see a few inches in front of her nose, nonetheless the Brooklyn newsies espy them.

She halted, her temper starting to make an appearance. The rage built in the pit of her stomach and ran through her blood; throughout the network of vessels to the tips of her fingers and toes and roots of hair that was bound by the black ribbon at the nape of her neck.

She turned sharply around, her head snapping with the motion, her storm- gray eyes burning and discerning nothing but the heavy swirls of fog. "Night, are you still there or has my wish come true and you've finally ended your pitiful life by jumping off the bridge?"

Her scathing remark fell short in the vapors. After a few moments of impatient waiting, Angel espied a dark figure approaching her through the veils of mist. An eyebrow cocked insolently and arms crossed over her chest, she waited as the figure's image grew sharper as the vividness of his ebony cloak incremented. The figure finally stood before her, resembling Death prepared to beckon her into the mist due to his garments of clothing.

A wry smile crossed her full lips at the morbid thought. Well, it isn't far from the truth, she thought with a hint of sick amusement.

From the visage shadowed by the hood came the oleaginous voice of Nero Night. "Jiminy, Angel, are you always this charming or did I just catch you on a bad day?"

With one expeditious motion he grasped the front of his hood and threw is back, revealing his summer-tanned skin. A coat of the fog's dew clung to his face and gave his already oily hair a disgusting gleam. A deep scowl lined his thin lips and caused his dark eyes to glow. He glared hatefully as his words lost their hint of amusement.

"Jesus, Angel, I don't see how Finesse can put up with all your bullshit. If I could of I would push you off the goddamn bridge and just go to Brooklyn and finish the job myself."

His hood still lowered; Night stalked past her, Angel's loathing gaze following him. "Finish the job? Finish the job? You make it seem as though we are going to assassinate someone!" Her voice was low, and she trembled as she fought to bridle the rage.

Night did not reply as he continued to briskly stride forward, a slight breeze circumventing through the thick fog, tossing his cloak behind him. His insolent silence was the match that ignited the impatient fury that fought to be uncaged within her. Her face becoming livid and her eyes burning with a fire, she tempestuously strode over to Night, standing before him and causing him to halt.

She gazed up at him, a zephyr throwing back her hood and caressing her bound hair as it tossed behind her. "Nero Night, I swear to all that is still holy and pure in this world that if you even draw one of your weapons I'll have no qualms whatsoever with keeping the oath I made that night."

Her eyes burned piercingly into his indifferent ones. Briefly, she swore she noted a flicker of fear flash across the orbs and temporarily shatter the cool façade. Yet, they soon regained their hardness once more as a sneer crossed his cracked lips. "What did I even say that night, Haddox? You're going soft. Finesse didn't believe me, but you're going soft. You don't have the guts to shoot me.

"Why don't you stay here and knit me a sweater like the little girl you are? Or better yet, why don't you get down on your knees and think sweet thoughts of me, sweetheart, because you're going to need all the practice you can get at being a whore. Not that you already aren't one, but the ones I've fucked are quite experienced, so you'll have quite a lot of catching up to do. I, on the other hand am on my way to becoming Oliver Haddox's new assassin once I get you and Finesse out of the way.

"Now, I have a prior engagement at the Brooklyn Lodging house to introduce Master Conlon to my switch that I just sharpened last night."

With a finalizing stare wrought with supreme authority, Night brushed past her, hitting her shoulder and causing her to recoil in a tinge of pain. A red haze of hatred clouded her vision and her body trembled with furor as she regarded Night's proud swaggering gait. Without even reviewing the notion twice, Angel reached into one of the many folds of her deep gray cloak, her glance never wavering from Night. Fumbling blindly, her hand felt the cool base of the revolver that was situated between the elastic waistband of her trousers and the flesh of her lower abdomen. Her grip on the base tightening, she pulled the revolver from her cloak with a flourish. In a fluid motion, she extended her arm skyward and pointed the weapon towards the cloudy heavens.

Night's dark figure was dimming in the overpowering swirls of mist that haunted the Brooklyn Bridge as her slippery fingers felt the trigger and cocked it. Involuntarily, in a ritual that she had performed so many times before, she pulled the trigger.

The deafening gunshot ripped through the thick air, rupturing the silence and shattering it into millions of shards. Angel immediately recoiled at the hateful, sonorous sound and winced, her teeth set on edge. Her pulse quickening, her eyes immediately fluttered open to find Night standing but a few feet from her. Utter incredulity and shock lined his features. His dark eyes were wide and glittering and his mouth was gaped in disbelief.

His lips moved wordlessly for a few syllables, before the jolt subsided and his hoarse voice filled her ears laced with blue curses. "Angel, what the hell are you thinking?" he bellowed, his tone growing. "Did you ever stop to think that Conlon and one of his newsies could be on this goddamn mother whoring bridge and we couldn't even see them? Or have you just lost your fucking marbles once and for all?"

Angel's countenance was quite cool and collected as she strode over to Night, her hips swaying some with her gait. The smoking revolver still clutched firmly in her grasp, she approached Night, her cold eyes upon him. Stepping closer, she lowered her mouth to his ear, as he cocked his head incredulously at her. She pushed the revolver into his abdomen so that he froze, arching away from the weapon.

Her hot breath filling his ear canal, she whispered in a low voice, "Maybe I have lost my marbles, Nero, maybe I have. But that still doesn't mean that you can push me around like one of your little sluts. I came to Brooklyn in this goddamn fog to spy on Spot Conlon and Jack Kelly and the other eight that are going to the war-council. Not to kill anyone. Those were my direct orders from my brother and I am not about to fall out of his favor. I am in charge here and if you so much as lay a finger on Spot Conlon I will blow your brains out. As much as I would love to kill him, Oliver did not give me the order to carry out his death on this day.

"If you so much as ever draw that pathetic excuse for a switchblade, I will blow your brains out. Remember that I have a revolver, which I can play like a virtuoso, and you are little boy with a switch. If you so much as attempt to wrest the revolver from me, I will blow your brains out."

Angel stepped back to regard Night's reaction. His face was twisted in cold rage and his dark eyes glimmered with the utmost hatred. "You're only a girl, Haddox. If I wanted-"

"If I wanted to could have lodged a bullet in you're brain many years ago. If you even try to so much as touch me I'll kill you. That, Nero Night is a promise. And I have never known a Haddox to break their promise."

With that, she gave herself the satisfaction of glancing into his eyes glazed over in malevolency and loathing. She then brushed past him, training her eyes forward as she grasped her hood with both hands and pulled it up once more, concealing her shining hair and face in shadows. The revolver was locked firmly in her clammy hand, prepared for use if needed.

The mist was waning. They had to hurry if they wanted to make haste to the lodging house with out having suspicion drawn upon them.

***

It hadn't been an assassination, though it had been just as odious a task.

Angel had awoken that morning, sprawled on her side on the splintered floorboards under the window of the third floor, the ungodly bright sun flooding the room and hurting her eyes. As soon as she had taken her first breath of consciousness, it felt as though an ice pick was being driven into her skull; felt as though her brains had been put through a processor and were ripping apart inside her cranium.

It had been fantastically worse than any hangover she had ever encountered. It had been even worse than the hangovers she acquired from the cheap gin Flynn acquired and both downed after an assassination.

But she hadn't drunk. She hadn't touched a single iota of alcohol since that day she and Flynn went to Brooklyn-the day she never wanted to recall for as long as she still breathed.

Her mind and soul had felt weak and her physical body ill by the way she disgorged her empty stomach with her head hanging out the window. She had felt hot and cold, had chills that could have perhaps been the cause of a fever.

Though, she knew it was not a physical affliction that plagued her. Yet, she found it quite astonishing to believe that three words numbering three syllables-

There's still time.

-could account for the overwhelming sickness she encountered. She spent the remainder of the morning, or perhaps it had been the rest of the afternoon for the time slipped her mind, sprawled on her stomach on the mattress. She stared unwaveringly at nothing in particular, falling in and out of blurry bouts of slumber, feeling to weak too muster enough energy to even find Flynn and head down to the Hideaway for food.

She needn't sell newspapers, for she had never sold one in her entire life. When she came to think of it, she did not think she knew an entire Midtown newsie who had sold a newspaper in their entire life, either. It was quite a sickeningly funny running gag with Oliver. Instead of being, she dare say, good and honest like Brooklyn and selling a pape for a living, Oliver had his sister and the best contracted assassin this side of New York hold a gun to a patron's head or have his thugs break their legs if they did not give him the money or supplies he craved. Being an assassin under Oliver was actually quite a compensating profession.

It had been a near impossible endeavor to keep the appellations of Brooklyn and Spot Conlon far from her mind. Though, the vehement questions that sprang to mind with the names were far more brutal to ignore.

She was still toying with the notion that Conlon visiting her chambers had only been a staple to the dream she had had of Dante's Inferno, when the knock had came to her door. Not being able to block the infernal noise from her throbbing brain, after twenty raps or so she lethargically dragged herself to the doorway and opened it only to find the stairs empty. Cursing the bastards under her breath, she had sluggishly dragged herself down to the second floor only to be beckoned into Oliver's room.

There she was given her orders.

She and Night were to go to the Brooklyn lodging house before the war- council and eavesdrop in on what the leaders of Brooklyn and Manhattan were chattering about. They were then to report back to the Hideaway, where the Lyners would be awaiting. They would rendezvous over a few bottles of booze and then head over to Gulliver's in the Bronx where Conlon and Kelly and eight others would be waiting.

At first, she fancied they had not heard the order correctly. Oliver had never issued an order for her to travail to Brooklyn without shooting anyone, nonetheless when the sun was still in the sky and sans her partner, Flynn. She had protested as passionately as her will would allow, yet Oliver had simply waved away all of her objections.

Due to her superior's command, Angel now found herself a few hundred feet away from the Brooklyn lodging house, gazing at the broken structure through the dying mist. A light breeze blew through the air, tugging her hood back somewhat, yet she frantically grabbed at it. She pulled it down lower as to cover her visage more, her hands clasping it together at the material below the chin.

Eliciting a listless sigh, she cast her eyes from the lodging house heavenward. The heavy thunderstorms of the previous night had left the thick, alien fog as a residue. Yet, through the mist she could discern the slightest outline of the setting summer-sun. The vapors would dissipate soon, leaving she and Night vulnerable to suspicion as they were garbed in their curious attire.

Her nose scrunching briefly at this ill misfortune, she exhaled deeply and turned over her shoulder. Night's darkened form was approaching her in his gliding gait. She watched as he reached into the folds of his cloak to retrieve a personally rolled cigarette, place it between his lips, and stop briefly to strike the match off the bottom of his shoe. Cupping his hands over his mouth and lighting it, he pitched the match carelessly away and inhaled deeply.

When he halted before her, she could only view the smoke fuming from his nostrils and the dim red glow that the embers cast. Her grip on the revolver tightened.

Angel regarded Night in silence for a few moments, as he said nothing, only inhaled on the cigarette. He finally spoke from beneath the hood. "That's the infamous Brooklyn Lodging House? It sure is a shithole."

She glanced over her shoulder quickly to view the lodging house before turning to Night. She brushed his statement off by caustically countering him. "And what would you know, Night? When's the last time you looked at where you lived?"

Angel swore she could feel his eyes burn into her from underneath the hood as the smoke billowed into the air. Her gaze faltering from his, an idea came to her and with her free hand she patted her pocket trousers for the cigarette Flynn had given her a few days prior. Placing it between her lips, she stared blatantly at Night. When he did not make a move to light the cigarette, she asked, "Well, do you have a light?"

He paused before he replied in a sniveling tone, "Why can't you just light your goddamn cigarette with your revolver? It's still smoking, you know."

A sneer crossing her lips, she tossed her head. "You know, you're so damn hilarious, Night. If the job of assassin doesn't work out maybe you can be Oliver's court jester. You have the jackass persona down pat already." She decisively added, "But, Nero, do you really want me to use my revolver again?"

Her words found their mark by the way Night begrudgingly reached inside his cloak and withdrew a match, which she quickly took from him. "Thank you very much, Nero. You're such a good foil," Angel said, lighting her cigarette.

The wind picked up, throwing back Night's hood so that she could catch a glimpse of his glowering visage. She smiled in spite of himself as he huffily pulled it over his head once more. Exhaling once again, he pitched the cigarette to the ground and snubbed it out with his slovenly shoe, smoke still wafting around him.

"So what the hell are we going to do all afternoon? Stand outside the lodging house having a smoke break? Oh, maybe we can ask Conlon and Kelly to join us! I sure as hell can't kill them but maybe we can have a drag with them. How 'bout it, Ang?" His voice's dominating tone was the usual sarcasm, yet she noted strong undercurrents of poorly bridled fury laced within.

Angel coolly exhaled, lowering the cigarette to her side and tapping the ashes to the cobblestones. She gazed at the lodging house. "We have to find out where they would be holding a conference. I was in the lodging house that night and I highly doubt that it would be in the parlor because sound travels quite easily outside. I suspect they wouldn't want anyone to hear their plans."

"I guess not," Night sneered.

She disregarded his negative comment, her gaze never wavering from the Brooklyn headquarters. "I don't think they would have it in the bunkroom because that's where all the newsies would congregate and I doubt Conlon and Kelly would want everyone and his brother to hear what they were discussing, even if it was about Oliver."

"Tell me when you stop thinking aloud and reach a point," he sighed loudly.

Her eyes quickly scanned the smeared windows until they halted upon one. Her breath caught in her throat. "That room. That's where they would be." She involuntarily raised an arm, extending a slim index finger towards the window in question.

Night's gaze followed to where she was motioning too. "And what makes that room so special?"

"Because," she whispered breathlessly, "that's his room."

"His room?" Night disparaged.

"Spot's room."

"Spot's room?" He asked, stretching the syllables of the appellation to their maximum allowance. "Am I noting informality with the leader of Brooklyn, Haddox?"

Angel blinked, her reverie immediately shattering. She felt her flesh heat until it was scorching. She furiously prayed under her breath for thanks that she was wearing the cloak for she knew not what vinaceous shade her skin had taken on. She snapped her head roughly towards Night, the motion pulling the hood back some and revealing her narrowed, storm-gray eyes.

"Conlon's room! I meant, Conlon's room." She paused before continuing, her eyes dropping from him, clearly ruffled. "Christ, you can't even call people by their names anymore? What's this world coming too?"

She felt his breath breeze against the back of her neck, causing the hairs to prickle, as he stood behind her, only a few inches separating them. "The world's coming to nothing, but you're coming to something, Haddox. I suspect that if you don't want others to have the wrong impression of you then you bite your tongue on certain subjects where your mind, and other regions of the body, turn to gelatin."

She whirled around to face him, her hood falling down and revealing her hair glinting in the first rays of sun that passed through the fog. Her eyes narrowed and face heated, she stared into his cloak. "And just what's that supposed to mean?"

"Oh, nothing," Night sighed indifferently, plucking the cigarette from her fingers and placing it between his lips, inhaling deeply. "It's just that I was wondering how you knew where Spot's room was, that's all," he inquired mockingly, exhaling.

"I told you," Angel cried, her voice taking on a shrill pitch. "Whenever Midtown invaded Brooklyn two years back I had a scuffle with Conlon and it was in that room there."

He was only silent as the smoke billowed lazily from under his hood.

His silence was like a splinter she could not remove from under a thatch of sensitive skin. "What?" she roared, the word spilling from her like lava erupting from an active volcano.

Night shrugged, tapping ashes to the ground with a finger before pitching the cigarette not far from where the other rested. "Nothing, Haddox, it's just that I find it quite hard to believe that you can recall Spot Conlon's room of all rooms. And even if he was in the room at the time that you had- what was your word? Ah, scuffle. Even if he was in the room when you had a scuffle with him what makes you conclude that it was even his room? It could have been anyone's."

She grasped the full extent of the utter smugness in his voice. He only used this intonation whenever he knew he was correct or on the trail of a subject that one would give their soul not to disclose. Angel feared the latter.

She locked with his gaze, her eyes hard and cold. "What are you implying?"

He stepped closer to her, his visage covered by shadows. The putrid odor of his nicotine-infested breath invaded her nostrils as he spoke. "I'm implying that I can see right past you, Haddox. You may think you're the only one that can see it and are wondering why in the hell Oliver can't see it, but I can. I know you've gone soft. I know. I could sense it in your blood ever since we shot that Brooklyn newsie. You hesitated and you never hesitated before-"

Angel interrupted his words by pulling the revolver from her side and pressing it against Nero Night's skull with taunt outstretched arms. The flesh of her skin had since become a stark white and her eyes blazed. Tremors slid up and down her arms, causing the weapon to shake badly against his brow. Her words trembled as she spoke. "I will shoot you know, Night-"

He was close enough that she could discern the broad smile on his cracked, thin lips. "I know you would shoot me now, Haddox? Isn't that a bitch! You would shoot me, one of your own kind, but you won't let me lay a finger on Conlon, or, what did you call him, Spot?" His gales of hearty laughter filled the misty air.

Angel felt an overpowering sickness wash over her and her head suddenly become light as he knees began to buckle. She found the damned crystalline tears coming to her and rendering her vision blurry as she regarded Night's boisterous form, his shoulders shaking from succumbing to the laughter.

The hatred and the loathing welled in the pits of her stomach. She despised him for she knew he was correct in every single aspect he had touched on. She despised Oliver for having sent her here without Flynn and when her uncertain emotions of the leader of Brooklyn ran so high and untamed. Yet, mostly she hated herself. Hated herself for the utter wreck she had become. Hated herself because she was in a forced cocoon between the lifestyles of Angel Haddox and Helena Haddox. Hated herself because she could not, feared too much to take the step and plunge into one life. Hated herself because she hated who she had become; because she had gone blindly for the past six years under her brother's command and left behind every shard of Helena Haddox that she had known. Now, when she wanted to return to that time, it was impossible.

She hated herself because she was now and will always be Angel Haddox, assassin to Oliver Haddox and living in squalor and death in Midtown. Because Helena Haddox had died long ago, whenever Oliver had blown her parents' brains in and first handed her the revolver. Had died whenever she had claimed her first victim.

The tears streamed down her cheeks freely now as she stared into Night's darkened face. The fury boiled over in her nether-regions, shooting with the greatest magnitude up her body, up her throat and out of her mouth in the form of a grand scream. As this release came, she involuntarily twisted the revolver upside down in her hands and pulled her arms back.

Night's wild laughter still filling her ears, with a great force she smashed the base of the weapon into his face. The laughter subsided abruptly, immediately. Angel stepped back, lowering the gun in front of her as consciousness slipped from Night and he pitched forward to the cobblestones.

Stifling sobs, Angel gave his body a shove with the tip of her shoe. He rolled over, the hood leaving his face visible. She had connected the base with his left temple, and blood gushed freely from the wound. Straightening, she cast her gaze over her shoulder at the lodging house.

The fog was nearly all but extinguished and the sun would disappear beyond the west horizon in only a few hours. Angel turned, furiously brushing the tips of her fingers under her eyes to rid herself of the tears. She began striding towards the looming lodging house, when a thought crossed her mind.

Cursing repeatedly under her breath, she spun about once more and returned to Night's sprawled body. She could not leave him in the open for fear that the fog would be gone in a time span of half an hour at most and the newsies espy him, thus handing away her disguise.

With an exasperated sigh, she nudged the body with her feet into a nearby copse of bushes, successfully concealing him. She reckoned that she had given Night a pretty nasty blow to the head and he should remain unconscious for at least a few hours.

Discerning that the task was complete, she turned and faced the lodging house. Brushing away the last remnants of tears, Angel studiously made sure that her hood was pulled over her head and concealed her visage.

She strode forward, her hands clasping the hood together, and her eyes never leaving the leader's window, all the while asking herself how in the name of God she was going to pull this off.


	11. Chapter 9

CHAPTER NINE

It was quite baffling to Angel, as she approached the Brooklyn lodging house cloaked and hooded, how dull and commonplace the structure resembled in the daylight.

It had been Conlon that single-handedly was responsible for the rise of Brooklyn, like the resurrection of a gilded Phoenix from the ashes. For a district so instilled with respect and fear, their cantonment was surely not terror inducing. It was an antediluvian youth hostel run by a one old man McDonald who in the genesis of the building had allowed just any newsie to take up residence for only two pennies a night.

However, when the fearless leader came along, he laid out his priorities to old man McDonald and the Brooklyn lodging house was now quite restrictive of who was allowed to haunt inside its walls. Especially now in the midst of the broken truce with Midtown, Conlon had taken extra precautions and had become extra wary. All he needed was one of Oliver's assassins posing as a Brooklyn newsie and attaining a bunk only to shoot his assigned victim from inside the walls.

At least, that's the tale that Angel had been told. She herself had only been inside the structure twice, once when the Armageddon had taken place-the massive rumble where Midtown invaded Brooklyn twain years back-and the time when she had straddled the fearless leader himself, sharing a passionate kiss with him.

Angel shivered at the memory. She had never before experienced emotions that wild, that impassioned, that unbridled from another human being before. She had almost convinced herself that the exchange had never taken place, though the bewildering appearance by him in her room had just reinforced her strong, unsure notions of him.

She halted, a thatch of waning mist swirling round her. Involuntarily, she gulped, her clammy grip tightening on the revolver at her side. Her wide eyes stared upwards, regarding the foreboding, looming lodging house. Her fingers absentmindedly fondled the trigger, as though preparing to cock it.

The structure rendered her breathless, and she could not help but feel a cold flicker of fear within her heart. She still hadn't forgotten that she was a Midtown native in the presence of the Brooklyn headquarters.

Suddenly, a flash of panic swept over her. She wondered if it was a rash judgment to have left Night unconscious. She of course would not have him any other way, save dead, though if she were to be espied or caught and captured by the enemy he could always come to her aid.

The doubt she was experiencing cracked as a grim smile came to her lips. Nero Night, assist anyone but his own self? Angel shook her head; it was not very likely. It was best that he was laying in the copse of bushes. The thought brought a broad smile to her full lips as she pulled the hood tighter around her head, shadowing her features.

She turned her attention to her surroundings once more. She stood a few paces from the warped steps that led to the porch on the front façade of the lodging house. Her memories strayed to the night when she had seduced Flick and Charley Cicatrice to their deaths. An intoxicated Flick had grabbed her ankle on the very steps she regarded now. The very porch that had once been filled with wild, drunken laughter, makeshift poker games, and abrupt lovemaking now was deserted and empty, save the thin vapors that occupied it.

She elicited a dejected sigh as her eyes wandered upwards to the window that was Conlon's room. At the time when she stated to Night confidently that the meeting of the two districts was being held there, it had only been a string of false airs. She had no idea in hell where the conference was being held. Though, she deduced that she had to start somewhere, and Conlon's room was better than nothing.

A warm wind slicing through the air and swirling around the ankles of her tailored-slacks, she wrapped the cloak tighter about her and kept her head low. Keeping to the side of the lodging house, she flirted around the thick copse of bushes that littered the corner and rounded the edge. Stopping suddenly, she raised her eyes to find that she was under the second-story window of Conlon's room.

Cursing silently under her breath, Angel surveyed the splintered wooden boards covered in creeping ivy that made up the left wall of the lodging house. She had foolishly thought that there would perhaps be a fire escape of some sorts as there had been at the Manhattan lodging house. There, she had been to scale the accessible flight of stairs and enter the bunkroom like a shadow, slitting her intended victim's throat as he had slept.

The Fates had not been on her side on this sojourn. Now, she was going to have to do the near impossible: enter the lodging house intrinsically and discern where the meeting was in order.

An utterance from the previous time she and Flynn had trekked to Brooklyn entered her mind, and propelled an ironic laugh to escape her lips.

He's going to get us all killed in the end.

She had of course been complaining to Flynn of her kin, yet now the words seemed to relate more to her present plight than they had before. She regarded the window and shook her head. Sometimes she fathomed if Oliver did not just attain his kicks at sending her off on impossible tasks.

On suicide missions.

An exhausted sigh issued from her lips as she brought the back of her hand to her brow, wiping away dew from the fog that clung to her flesh. Though, there was no way between heaven and hell that she could just waltz on back to Midtown without at least attempting to gather any information. The Lyners would be there, and Oliver would not wish to disappoint them, most notably Rylie who had a sadistic nature to rival that of her brother's.

Exhaling darkly once more, she pirouetted slightly on her toes so that she faced the opposite direction. Striding forward and keeping close to the building, she gathered the dark material of her cloak about her. Her head down, while staring at fall in length of shadows, she could deduce that the sun was setting and soon it would be dusk.

Gulliver's Inn. In the Bronx. We shall meet at dusk. Bring no more than ten. Don't bring any weapons, you will be unarmed at the door. There, we will discuss the preparations for our little tea party.

We shall meet at dusk. Meet at dusk.

Oliver's words haunted her as she took a soft left, bringing her once more to the front of the lodging house. Time was slipping through her fingers like sand. If she was to garner any information at all she need hurry.

Her lips pursed in determination and the lines of her face hard, Angel turned and grasped the splintered railing of the porch. With a strangled grunt, she pushed herself off her feet and in one graceful motion swung her legs over the railing. She landed in a crouched position, as silent as a cat. In the process of the flight, her hood had pushed back some, leaving wisps of her pale hair to glow like burnished gold in the last remnants of the dying sun.

Her senses acute and sharpened tenfold, she rose slowly, brushing back the unbound hair and pulling up her hood once more. Her head jerking about, when she espied that there was no one about, she slowly crept forward towards the smeared, cobwebbed-laced window that looked into the parlor. She neared the slovenly pane of glass and sank to her haunches so that her intense eyes could view inside.

The parlor was vacant and she could observe not a soul. Her breath caught in her throat and her heart thumping loudly in her ears, she stayed paralyzed in the position for a good minute or so, just as though when she entered the threshold she would not be ambushed.

When she finally felt satisfied enough, she rose to her feet and skirted to the doorway, nudging the door opened with a sway of her hips. The door opened with a squeak as though it was being diabolically murdered and Angel switched her position to the other side of the doorway so that she could glance inside the crack that the opening had produced. All she could view were the shadowed stairs that lead to the second floor smattered with thin beams of sunlight. Placing her palm on the thick plank of wood, she glanced warily over her shoulder once more to calm her jittery nerves. Reassuring herself, she turned her attention back to the door and carefully pushed on it so that it would not produce any sounds that would give her away.

The door swung silently, slowly inward to reveal the parlor of the lodging house. Angel stepped into the threshold, her palm still on the door and her eyes taking note of the surroundings. The parlor remained empty, a far cry from the intoxicated, blissful sonority that had been predominant in the air at the grand party that Conlon had thrown. The warped table that had been the center of the poker game sat desolate, coated in a thin layer of dust. The band and their melodious music had long since disappeared, as had the glitter-shot beer bottles and drums of booze. Shadows had settled into the room, save for the dimming rays of light that lazily entered the parlor from a trio of windows on the left wall.

Angel took a few steps forward, her hand leaving the door as she stepped into the room, her eyes still darting about in awe. The silence was so thick that she could have sliced effortlessly through it with the blade that she had sheathed and bound to her leg. If she hadn't been a denizen to Brooklyn then she would have never have fathomed that Spot Conlon called this his home. All that haunted the room now were fantastic ghosts of the wild jollification that had been.

Unknowingly, it struck a chord in her heart. As though the thought were so depressing. Inwardly, Angel hissed at herself for being so sentimental. Gathering herself, she stole over to the flight of stairs. She purposely crept as silently as she could, as though not to elicit a squeak from one of the stairs until she halted on the median stair, engulfed in a patch of darkness. Planting her feet on a step, she curled her arms on an upper one until she was stretched out on the stairs, her ears perked for any cacophony.

She listened intensely, until she picked up a dull buzz of commotion on the second floor. She rose once more and took the rest of the steps in a deathlike silence, her eyes and ears wide opened. As she reached the terminus of the stairs, she straightened and flattened her back against the right wall so that she could peer into the dim hallway. She looked to her right first; her heart beat drumming sonorously in her ears. Radiating from the direction, she could determine the subtle sounds of conversation.

Angel then returned her bent neck to its place as her head found its normal position. A shallow light glowed from the end of the hallway.

She inhaled in a sharp breath, yet realized that her breath already been caught in her throat. She released a slight cough and immediately brought a hand over her mouth, pressing her rigid back to the wall, the polished banister digging into her lumbar. She dare maneuver her head to that she could peer into the darkened hallway once more at the light. The shallow beam flickered for a moment as she regarded it.

The beam of light that had illuminated his room spilled into the hallway.

Involuntary shivers traced down her backbone in remembrance of his quarters. Perhaps she had been correct in the notion that the meeting of the two leaders was being held in the room.

Her pulse speeding and her respiration incrementing steeply, she flushed as she stepped off the stairs and into the dimly lit hallway. She pried her eyes from the light for a brief second to cast her glance over her shoulder. Detecting that she was protected, she began to pad softly, deliberately towards the light as it beckoned to her like a fiery siren. As she neared Conlon's room, she could discern that the door was swung inward and that the kerosene light that was positioned on the vanity or desk or whatever it had been was throwing the dim glow into the hallway.

Pressing her back against the left wall, the wall that the room was situated on, she silently sidestepped her way towards the chambers. A diluted noise resonated from the room, and her flesh crawled with an incurable itch to peer her head inside and catch what the leaders were bantering of.

Yet, over the audible thudding of her heart, she heard the faint fall of footsteps down the hallway.

Step..step..tap.

Her breath bated painfully in her trachea as her pulse increased rapidly. A wave of panic washed over her, dousing her, so that she abruptly halted and snapped her head to the right to glance down the hallway. With the jolting motion, her hood had fallen back and wild wisps of hair fell unbound from the black ribbon, glimmering vaguely in the light at the end of the hall.

Her storm-hued eyes engorged in their sockets she immediately froze as though a frigid liquid had been induced into her veins, chilling her blood to ice. Her chest heaved painfully as she heard the strange fall of footsteps once more.

Step..step..tap.

A more upbeat fall of feet could be heard in convergence with the unusual steps.

And then Angel heard the voices. It was though they were a haunting reminder of when Conlon had found her hidden behind his trunk, for now she heard the same exact tones. The voice of passion and the voice of reason. The impassioned voiced reverberated down the corridor to her ears and she closed her eyes as the words played in her ear canal. She allowed the exquisite sensation of heat to overwhelm her as Conlon's voice-there's still time-found her welcoming ears. The other, lower voice she recognized of that of Whitie Wilson, Conlon's right hand man, as was Night to her brother.

All sense of mobility was brutally purloined from Angel as the reverie shattered, the delicious warmth dissipating and leaving in its place an icy mortal fear. She willed her legs to move; yet, they were transfixed to the splintered floorboards at her feet. It was as though her raging mind were severed from her limbs.  
Her breath becoming labored, she sharply turned her head in the direction of Conlon and Wilson. They had emerged from a room at the opposite end of the hallway, engaged in a heated conversation, only to halt suddenly in a patch of shadows, oblivious to all but each other.

Her mind temporarily paralyzed, she regarded the pair of silhouettes that were dimly bathed in light. Conlon had his back leaning on the wall, his right hand clutching what appeared to be a cane. He was silent as Wilson stood before him, his voice calmed and hushed as his arm made extravagant gestures in the air.

As Angel averted her sight from them, her mind finally cleared again. With a choked sob of fear, she pushed herself off the wall and dashed across the corridor and into the first available room situated before her. She entered the threshold, a sigh of relief overwhelming her. She bent, pushing her hood back with one careless swipe to run her hands through her tangles of sweaty hair.

As she remained in the doubled-over position, she heard the resume of the footsteps as they neared. With a gasp, she straightened and quickly panned her surroundings. She was situated in a darkened room that appeared desolate and abandoned. It was furnished without any windows, allowing shadows dominate. There were only a few warped wooden cartons in myriad stages of decomposition wrought with glistening cobwebs scattered about.

"I told you, Whitie, you'd have to be a fucking idiot to go to this damn council without any weapons." Conlon's voice was alive with a passionate fire as he and Wilson neared.

Angel quickly turned over her shoulder to glance into the hallway. The opened threshold of Conlon's room was partially visible from the room she took refuge in. Her curiosity immediately overtook her as she crouched low and sidled to behind the opened door. Positioning herself correctly, she could see freely from the crack between the door and the wall where the portal was hinged. Her eyes quickly surveyed the inhabitants of Conlon's room, taking exquisite note if she was to recite it to her brother and his party at the Hideaway.

The room was dimmed; save for the fire from the kerosene lamp that highlighted the features of those that she could view. Sitting on the edge of the warped vanity she could make out the definite form of the leader of Manhattan. She could positively identify Kelly from the idiotic hell-fire red bandanna and the foolish cowboy hat down his back that was anchored by a string around the neck. His lifeless features channeling that of a statue's, he kept fidgeting, perhaps unknowing to keep his arms crossed over his chest or his fingers drum atop the vanity.

The only other she could recognize was that damn gambler, though she could not recall his name. He was positioned next to Kelly, sitting on the vanity with a leg tucked under him and the other dangling listlessly off the edge. A fuming cigar was positioned between his lips and he lazily tossed a deck of cards between his hands.

Her gaze on the gambler was shattered whenever Conlon strode furiously in front of the crack, causing her to gasp. The strange fall of his steps was attributed to the gleaming cane that he handled in his right hand. When Wilson had crossed in front of her, Angel bit the tip of her tongue between her lips in determination and silently rearranged herself so she could have a better view.

An abrupt hush fell across the room when Conlon entered, replacing the dull murmurs that had been predominant. Conlon positioned himself before Kelly. His lanky form held erect and his face emotionless, his hand rested on the cane in front of him while the kerosene lamp caused his hair to glow while his visage remained shadowed.

There was a heavy silence while both leaders regarded each other. Kelly took leave from leaning on the vanity as he straightened.

The Brooklyn leader broke the silence. "We're taking weapons."

Angel's head cocked in wonderment at the reaction this simple statement brought. A large assortment of groans and yells blended into one angry murmur that filled the still air. In the reflection of the fire, Kelly's face twisted into disgust as he threw his arms over his head. The gambler had taken the cigar out of his mouth and was holding his arms outstretched. His mouth moved quickly, his features contorted into disbelief and anger.

Throughout this outburst, Conlon's collected disposition never once broke. He still stood straight, proud, and motionless with his head held high.

Kelly's voice strangled with utter infuriation rose over the cacophony. "Taking weapons? Your-you're taking weapons?" He placed his hands to his face and then ran them through his dull brown hair as he began to pace before Conlon. He suddenly halted and piercingly stared into the cool eyes of his ally. "Spot, tell me you're kidding me, just tell me you're kidding me." His voice lost its anger, and now was soft, as though he did not wish to accept Conlon's words.

Conlon only tilted his head slightly, his lower body never moving even a muscle. "I'm not kidding you."

A large roar of voices arose at his words, as a string of blue curses issued from Kelly's lips. The Manhattan leader raised a pointed index finger towards Conlon. "You don't know what the hell you're doing, Spot. If Haddox told you not to bring any weapons, then you shouldn't bring any weapons-"

"But Oliver will have weapons." The low, timid of voice of Wilson interrupted Kelly, causing Angel's gaze to flicker to him. She had nearly forgotten of him, standing in the doorway. Kelly cast his burning glare from Wilson to Conlon.

"I really don't give a shit if Haddox will have weapons. Of course he will have weapons! But do you even want to dare mess with him? If he says that you'll be searched at the door then he means you'll be searched at the door no if, ands or buts!" His impassioned voice died away and he stepped closer to Conlon so that their faces were mere inches apart. Angel regarded their intense profiles illuminated by the blaze. Conlon's head was still held high and proud, never have moved. Kelly's brow was slicked with sweat and the muscles in his face trembled. She had to strain to hear his words for his voice had fallen to such a deathly whisper.

"Spot, you know I've been your best friend through thick and thin and you know that I'd give my life for yours in a minute. But there are some things that I just won't do. And fucking with Oliver Haddox is one of them.

"He's like a cobra waiting to strike. If you bring weapons he'll search you and find them and blow your head off for bringing them. You know that damned sister of his will shoot your brains out in a heartbeat. They're ruthless, Spot. Absolutely ruthless.

"You made Brooklyn what it is today by using that head that is on your shoulders, but on decisions like this I sometimes fail to see how. I'm a pretty willing guy, Spot, but I also have to look out for my boys. That's what a leader does. And I can't do this, won't do this if you bring weapons."

A deafening silence hung over the air like a suffocating shroud. Angel could physically feel the awesomely intense electricity crackle between the two leaders as she sat on edge for a reaction.

Conlon finally responded. His electric eyes never leaving Kelly's, his hand went to his chest and grasp firmly what seemed to be a key. She watched as he twisted it anxiously before her eyes returned to his cold face.

"I, too, Sullivan, am a leader. Don't forget where you are. You're in Brooklyn, not Manhattan. What I say goes. You speak of insubordination."

Angel felt her pulse begin to race, whether it was with lust or a feeling of sickness, as she watched the most powerful district alliance, including Midtown and Queens, crumble before her very eyes.

Her eyes never left the two leaders as an overpowering silence filled the lodging house. She would have bet her immortal soul that very instant that every breath in the small, cramped room had been caught painfully in each and every throat as all eyes fell to the two.

As quickly as a match ignites into fire, so did Kelly. His face grew livid as his features twisted into that of absolute repulsion. "Insubordination? I speak of insubordination? Jesus Christ, Spot, that's an awfully big word for you to use. When did you find time to hawk the dictionary? Was it while you were fishing your boys like goddamn fish out of the water? Oh, wait, that's right. With all this stress you haven't been laid in over a month, so maybe you found the time then."

A deafening hush fell over the room and Angel quickly flicked her gaze to Conlon. His frigid, indifferent demeanor had all but been shattered. His pale skin had erupted into a violent shade of crimson and his eyes glittered with hate like blue diamonds set on fire. His whole carriage trembled outright as his hand gripped the head of the cane so tightly it turned white. "Who are you? Manhattan. Fucking Manhattan. Who are we? Brooklyn. Mother whoring Brooklyn! What in the name of Christ was I thinking when I asked you to help me? Aren't you always the pansy that comes running to me when the little Delancey's start picking on you? So why in the name of God would I need your help? You're nothing. Absolutely nothing. Cowboy Jack Kelly and his band of girls. Why the hell do you think I am named the goddamn Fearless Leader of Brooklyn! Because I'm fearless! I don't need you! So take your girls and get out of my room, you son of a bitch. I don't need you. I don't need you."

Even from being situated from across the hall, Angel could still pristinely distinguish the absolute loathing and malevolency that coursed through Kelly. His visage burnt a deep red as he extended a trembling index finger towards Conlon. "I hope you still say that..I hope you say that Conlon when Haddox finds your weapons and blows your fucking brains out. I hope you say that! I hope you say that Spot because you're so fucking blinded by pride that you can't even what's right in front of you. It's a trap, Spot. A big goddamn trap and that bastard is just gonna sit back and smirk when you disobey him. If you don't bring weapons then at least you can have a chance to have your final vengeance against him in a real out and out war and not die at his mercy tonight-"

"I thought I told you to leave!" Conlon hissed with an ample amount of venom in his shaking voice.

Kelly lowered his hand lax to his side. Angel shifted her weight some so she had a more proper view of them. They had shifted somewhat in the midst of the argument and now they stood near the warped desk, the light of the kerosene lamp highlighting the creases of hate in their faces tenfold. The light reflected off of their eyes, causing them to glitter violently. They hauntingly resembled deadly cobras, prepared to strike for the final time.

Kelly shook his head. "Don't worry, Spot don't worry. When I walk out of here it's over. But hell, I'll come to your funeral

and read a nice speech about what a stupid, proud son of a bitch you were."

With that, Kelly strode furiously to the door. As he exited the threshold, Conlon turned towards the door and shouted after him, "Fuck you!"

Angel pulled away from the crack some as Kelly stalked past her down the hallway, his shoes heavy against the antediluvian floorboards. After Kelly had passed, she quickly rose to her knees again and inched closer towards the crack. She peered out at Conlon who was still looking towards the open door. His face was livid and his chest heaved heavily.

When the sound of the door to the lodging house slammed shut in one final time, the sound reverberated throughout the deadly silent room, a silence that seemed to consume the entire surroundings. As soon as the sound diminished, Conlon then abruptly straightened and panned the paralyzed newsies who still inhabited the room. His gaze roaming over them, their lingering appearance just seemed to fuel his intense rage more. "What are you still doing here?" he howled. "I thought I commanded you to leave along with your goddamn leader!"

The newsies all exchanged glances before the apparent Manhattan rose to their feet and filed past Conlon. Some were more expedient on their feet than others, not meeting his wrathful gaze as they hurried into the hallway with fear. Yet others were slow, and even dare to halt before Conlon for a brief second, their faces wrought with absolute hate, as the gambler did.

The gambler was the last to leave and had bestowed upon Conlon the most scathing look. When the billows of smoke that he had left in his wake dissipated, the Brooklyn leader then turned once more to the newsies that remained-his newsies.

"Out. Get the hell out now." The hate in his inflection had slightly calmed and his words were more of a weary command. They must have known when to tempt their leader and when not to, for simultaneously they rose to their feet and quickly filed out of his quarters, avoiding his gaze.

When the last one had left his presence, Conlon elicited an utterly exhausted sigh and placed his hands to his face. The color of his flesh immediately waned and his ridged posture immediately softened as his shoulders rounded. He took a few paces towards the bunk beds; his visage still covered with his hands and sat on the edge of the lower bed. He bent forward, placing his head between his legs. One hand remaining on his face, the other found its way through his hair.

It was an exquisite temper that he possessed. It was an erratic one. When it came upon him it consumed him like the most powerful fire. Yet, when it left, it left an exhausted human being forced to deal with the repercussions of a few seconds of passion.

Angel regarded him as she slowly rose to her feet. Just a few moments ago he had appeared so utterly fearsome and yet now he looked so utterly pathetic and...mortal.

A slight creak turned her attention away from Conlon to the hallway before her where Wilson stood poking his head in the doorway, regarding his friend and shaking his head sadly. Conlon did not notice his presence for his posture still did not change. He only ran both hands through his hair now, polishing it back.

Wilson took a step forward so that he entered the room that only a moment before he had been excommunicated from. His heavy boots caused the wooden floorboards to creak under his weight and caught Conlon's attention for he raised his head sharply.

Wilson's carriage was erect and rigid, as though he expected yet another lashing from his superior. Yet, Conlon's gaze was frighteningly void of any hardness whatsoever. The eyes that he glanced at Wilson with where the ones that only the most experienced of men possessed, men who had survived entire lifetimes of trials and tribulations. A seventeen-year-old boy should not have possessed eyes that worn and lifeless.

A thin smile flickered upon Conlon's lips before it fell and his face once more found his hands. Wilson stepped forward cautiously, shifting his weight from one foot to another, causing the boards under him to moan. "Uh, Spot," he began, his voice raw and unsure.

Conlon did not reply, only twined his fingers through his dirty blonde hair.

Wilson cleared his throat. "Spot, I wanted to tell you when they all left..." His voice trailed and Angel could see the back of his neck turn a bright crimson.

And they sure as hell did leave, she thought with ironic humor.

"I mean, I wanted to tell you...I got something for you."

Slowly, Conlon raised his head to gaze at Conlon. "What?" he implored in a weary voice, taking his hands from his hair.

"I..it...I mean she is in the other room. I bought 'er for you, Spot, before we left for tonight. I thought it...she might do you good. You know, all this pressure-"

"Pressure?" Conlon hissed, his blue eyes glittering.

"Pressure? Did I say pressure?" Wilson laughed nervously. "Naw, I meant..well you told Ja..well you said that you hadn't been laid in a month yourself. Her name's Breathless. Aw, and I'm sure she'll leave you breathless. She's great looking. They said she was the best. Tall, leggy, and blonde. Just the way you like 'em. Great tits, too. I told her to wait in the room across from yours on account of the meeting."

Angel did not see the shallow smile that adorned Conlon's lips or the way it caused his eyes to glimmer for her mind had suddenly fallen into the hands of chaos. Wilson's words kept replaying in her mind like some sort of jumbled train wreck.

I told her to wait in the room across from yours. I told her to wait in the room across from yours. In the room you're in right now Jesus Christ!

Angel released an inaudible gasp and pressed a hand to her mouth. She stumbled backwards into the darkened room as she viewed as Conlon gave Wilson a tired smile and as the mattress fluxed under his weight as he rose to his feet.

"So you sprang for a slut, Wilson? Jesus H. Christ!" Conlon's amused voice came as he and Wilson exited his room and prepared to enter the room that Angel was situated.

Angel's breath was brutally purloined from her as she scrambled backwards, her eyes desperately searching about the room for any place at all to conceal herself. Save the warped crates, there was nothing at all. Her eyes finally flickered to the dark, damp walls as a last resort to perhaps espy a window. They were bare.

As she continued to press backwards, she stumbled upon a crate that happened to be in her path and with a cry she was brought to her feet. She landed with an audible thud, causing the dust that had to collect to suddenly billow and rise. After eliciting a loud sternutation, she opened her eyes to find the pair looking inside the door, confusion adorning their visages. Yet Wilson soon turned towards Conlon as a grin played upon his lips.

Conlon reciprocated the gesture as best he could. Wilson then nodded towards him and soon was striding down the hall. Conlon, his eyes upon Angel's darkened visage, stepped through the threshold, the floorboards squealing under his weight. In the last remnant of the dim light of the corridor, she could see his eyes glint hungrily before he stepped into the room, pulling the door shut behind him so they were both devoured by darkness.

Angel's breath was heavy as she breathed through her mouth and her sonorous heartbeat filled her ears. She squinted her eyes, trying to allow them to adjust to the fresh darkness. She did not allow a single muscle to move as she sat on the floor with her legs still over a tumbled crate, trying to discern where Conlon was at in the room.

She heard a soft groaning of boards issue forth to her left and she uttered a slight gasp, snapping her head in the direction.

"So, your name's Breathless." His voiced sliced cleanly through the blackness and found her ears where it gently played its seducing song. She slightly gulped as she felt her blood begin to burn in her veins.

"Do you really think you'll leave me breathless, Breathless?" He paused a moment, the origin of his voice not distinguishable, before continuing. "Because I'm telling you, as you most likely heard from my friend I haven't been laid for a whole entire month, even more perhaps. And it all just builds up inside every day." His voice dropped to a whisper. "Building and building. Layer upon layer. Until one day it just...explodes."

At his last word, she felt his hands firmly grasp her upper arms as he pressed his lips to hers. The kiss was absolutely smoldering. Before she had time to respond in sheer surprise, he was forcefully raising her to her feet and directing her backwards.

Angel released an unintentional moan as she felt her back slammed against the wall. She tried weakly to remove herself from him, yet the command slowly waned in her mind until it was all together drowned out by a sweet, hot temptation. She released her inhibitions and let go, her body becoming lax.

He doused her in scorching, fiery kisses, all his passion and rage pouring from his soul and being exchanged to her. She released a sigh as one his experienced hands quickly found its way down her left side where it impatiently pushed up the materiel of the heavy cloak. His hand found its way up her thigh where he pulled her leg up near his hip. His other hand found its way under her hood, caressing her tangles of hair as his fingers became interwoven in it.

She tried to halt him from doing so, from pushing back the hood, yet he only stopped her. As he slammed her once more against the wall, Angel felt herself returning the kisses with equal ardor. Her mind had long since been decimated, her better judgment suspended as blistering, white-hot passion coursed through every fiber in her body. She was drunk with an impassioned craze, a high, as his unbridled ferocity was passed to her through his professional kisses.

Unknowingly, she was eliciting noises she had never known possible as his lips ravished her skin, making a line down her throat where they finally rested at the hollow of her neck before settling upon her lips again.

In a state of fevered bliss, Angel brought her hands to his chest where they grasped the key that was about his neck. She pulled at it, unable to sustain the orgiastic sensations that rushed through her, and it easily broke off in her grasp. Still holding the key and chain, she brought her hands about his head where she dug her nails into his slovenly hair.

It was then she heard the strike of the flint and the light appear. Thoroughly startled, Angel turned her head to see that Conlon had struck a match and although he was much busy saturating her with impassioned kisses, he was holding the flame a loft and level to their faces.

Panic immediately overtook Angel and her initial reaction was to push him off and fluidly reach for the revolver at her waistband. She saw Conlon's eyes quickly alight in wonder as she blew the flame out in one breath, darkness overtaking the room once more.

The revolver already unsheathed, she decided on only one course of action. Her arm expediently snaking about a disoriented Conlon's neck, she easily brought him to the floor as she sank to her haunches behind him. Pressing the revolver to his left temple, her tight grip increased as she restrained him. She cocked the trigger and brought her lips to his ear, her hot breath filling his ear canal.

"If you want this to stop then listen and listen carefully," she growled. "If you bring weapons tonight he will find them at the door and he will kill you without second thought. Unless you want to die don't bring them. And if you want to have any chance of living, go apologize to Kelly. No matter what you say you need Manhattan because he will have Queens. Don't allow stupid pride to blind you. He's serious. And he will murder you and every last one of your boys at the door, no ifs, ands, or buts-"

Angel was interrupted as the door creaked open, accompanied by a sultry female voice. "Well, Brooklyn, ready for a time you'll never forget?"

Angel's head immediately snapped up and her pupils constricted painfully in the bright light. In doorway stood undeniably Breathless, her platinum hair and gold-sequined dress catching the light. Her red lips fell open and confusion crossed her face as she saw the scene before her. "Hey, Spot, you all right? Are you all right?"

Angel did not allow Conlon a reply for her arm quickly slid from his neck as she rose to her feet and flew out the door, pushing past the harlot. Pumping her legs and her hair blowing behind her, she dashed into Conlon's room and to the only means of escape possible. Not even tempting to cover the main stairs to where other Brooklyn newsies would most likely catch her, she covered her head, and ran full-force into the only window in Conlon's room. At the impact, the pane of glass shattered into a million shards as Angel released a gasp as tumbled off of the jagged sill and felt herself in flight towards the earth below. Quickly curling into a fetal position and bringing her head between her head, she hit the hard patch of grass below with a shower of fractured glass raining down upon her. She landed on her side, excruciating pain immediately shooting through her.

Alas, she willed herself up, tears stinging her eyes due to the pulsating agony that rocked her upper left leg whenever one of her hard strides connected with the ground. She rushed blindly, the forgotten revolver locked in her grasp, only halting as she saw Night stumbling in a circle near the copse of bushes where she had left him unconscious.

He had a hand to his right temple as blood still streamed freely from the wound that she had inflicted upon him. When he noted her presence, he halted and his eyes fell to her, never quite focusing on her face. "Hey, hey what happened?"

"There's no time to talk, Night, we have to get out of here, now!" With that, she grabbed his hand and took off running once more. It was an impossibly difficult sojourn-Night was still a bit dazed and could not run correctly and each time Angel picked up her legs her left one felt as though it was on fire-yet they made it back to Midtown as dusk consumed the sky.

***

"I told you, Oliver, they weren't there."

"But that still doesn't explain what the hell happened to Night," her brother hissed, his dark eyes flickering to Night quickly before falling to her once more.

"Or why it appears as though you've been thoroughly ravished, Angel," Rylie Lyner intoned in a low, amused voice.

Angel became self-consciously aware of her absolutely disheveled appearance again as she felt the uncontrollable rage begin to built in her chest. Though, she inhaled in a deep breath and recited her tale once more to her audience.

"I told you. I went there and told Night to stay in the bushes. Why risk both of us getting caught? I crept near the lodging house and peered inside any ground floor windows but it appeared vacant. So I went inside and went to the old man who runs it, old man McDonald."

"You ask old man McDonald?" Oliver hissed incredulously, slamming his bottle of whisky down on the table, causing all of the other cups to shudder.

"Yes, but I pretended as though I was looking for Whitie Wilson," she said quickly, catching herself. She breathed a sigh of relief as her brother's skin waned from the deep hue of crimson it had taken on.

"You know Wilson," she urged. Noting the utter dumbfounded look upon Horance Lyner's face, she reiterated. "Conlon's second. Anyhow, he said that all of the newsies were out. Said Conlon had told him that they all went so some 'rally.' Obviously I couldn't get any information with the old man standing there watching me like a hawk so I left. When I got back to where Night was I saw a dark man beside him. They were struggling and the man struck Night across the head. I ran over to them and the man was trying to rob Night so I went over and tried to break it up." She was becoming impatient, the utter pain in her left leg incrementing with each passing second. "So the man turned on me and that's why I look like I do not because I got laid." She directed a particularly stinging gaze towards Rylie. "And then I pulled my revolver and he ran off. Will you stop asking me to repeat the goddamn story over and over again? I can't help that you're brother is a total idiot Rylie, but I'm tired for Christ's sake!"

With that, Angel dropped into her chair next to Flynn with a deep sigh. She picked up her bottle of booze and downed what was left with one swig. Ignoring the amused stares she acquired from the others around the warped, circular table, she kept her gaze to her lap as her hands massaged her aching leg.

Not looking up at the sharp kick that Flynn gave her to the shin with his foot under the table, Angel sat in her own thoughts as her brother dominated the conversation. "Well, my dear comrades, but it appears to be dusk and we must be off to have a tea party with Spot and his little girls."

A low laugh ripped throughout the party as the men lethargically rose. Angel lifted her head in time to see the arrays of last-minute deadly weapons that they were tucking into the folds of their clothing.

A shiver ran through her as she rose also. She was the last to exit the Hideaway and when she stepped outside into the warm, summer night she inhaled deeply and felt a fait memory of the explicit fever that she had felt only a few hours prior with a man who was her mortal enemy.

"Hey, Angel, you got your revolver?" She lifted her head at the sound of her brother's voice and slowly nodded her head. A grotesque smile crossed his lips as he nodded and took the first steps towards the meeting place to where the war-council was to be held.

Angel turned her head and gazed into the horizon, a sudden chill overtaking her. The last of the crushed pink sunset was dying and the cold stars were beginning their reign in the heavens above.

Involuntarily, her hand went to her waistband to feel for the revolver. As she caressed it, she felt another object. Its touch was cold, foreign, and she immediately lowered her gaze.

Angel choked back a sob. Sticking out of her trouser pocket was the key on the chain that she had unclasped from his neck in a state of smoldering passion, silver and glinting in the moonlight.


	12. Chapter 10

CHAPTER TEN

The endless expanse that was the sky was a deep, dark indigo. Cold, unblinking stars littered the black heavens like insignificant glittering diamonds that some god had just carelessly pitched to the ground. It was a breathless night, an odd night. It was the prime of the summer, and a disgusting humid residue remained from the smoldering morning star of the day.

Her clothing adhered to her sweat-slicked body. The ripped, filthy white long-john shirt, the charcoal gray trousers that had a rip down one side, and the mud-stained, blood-stained boots clung to her body in a sheet of perspiration. The hair that was pulled back by the tattered ribbon felt slovenly and dirty. But her insides contradicted her. Inside, in her veins, in her fibers, she felt unbelievingly cold and frigid. The combination of the two warring sensations made her feel somewhat lightheaded and woozy. There was a definite sway to her gait, like the times she had swayed while totally drunk. She was oblivious to the uproarious voices of the males around her.

Her gaze only stayed on the deep night sky and her grasp around the cold key in her pocket.

Angel's dreamlike trance was shattered only when she felt cool finger tips dance over the crook of her bare elbow, before a clammy, calloused hand lightly clamped down on it. She turned her head to find Rylie Lyner strolling next to her. Her insides began to boil.

Her eyes narrowed and she immediately relinquished her hold on the key. She abruptly yanked her elbow of his hold with a great passion. "Leave me alone," she hissed softly.

A dangerous smirk alighted upon his thin lips as his dark eyes glittered malevolently behind his spectacles. "Alone, Angel? I was to have you alone you know at The Hideaway, but then you just had to show up belated-and with that nasty stitch in your leg." His voice was silky, low, and calculating. It was the inflection that the most ruthless spoke in, her brother included.

A shiver ran forcefully down her spine as she closed her eyes to stop from feeling sick. Alone. Of course he was to have her alone. How could it have escaped her mind that Oliver was not above bargaining anything and everything for the alliance with Rylie Lyner?

The Lyners were the dictators of nonetheless Queens. The whole tale of how Rylie assumed power over the district's newsies and drove it straight to straight to the ground was a most popular legend in the annals of newsboy lore. Rylie had murdered his closest friend to assume the title, and soon transformed Queens into an unspeakably ruthless place.

Just like Oliver Haddox had done with Midtown.

Her brother needed the alliance with Queens, just as Brooklyn needed the alliance with Manhattan. Although, Angel mused, Kelly would come to Conlon's aid, even though he did not wish too, because Conlon was his friend.

Oliver did not have friends. Neither did Rylie Lyner. They had enemies, and they had partners. Oliver and Rylie were partners, business partners, and when Rylie scratched Oliver's back, Oliver scratched Rylie's back. It wasn't necessarily a business transaction that Rylie was dealing with; it was more of a favor. If at all possible, Angel knew that Rylie had taken a liking to her brother for they were both alike in many of the same ways. They both relished in the shedding of blood; their fever increased when they got to torture the innocent. But they became nearly orgasmic with lust when they were able to persecute their mortal enemies.

Like when Rylie had murdered his friend, Jimmy Sprites, to take control of Queens; or when Oliver would no doubt murder Conlon just for being an excruciating pain in his ass.

Of course Oliver must sacrifice something to have Lyner's solemn promise that he would stand behind him in his relentless quest to burn Brooklyn to the ground. And that pawn was to be her, Angel. It was not that her brother considered her a whore to do his own bidding with, it was just that he did not give a damn about who he had to step over to finally acquire the brass ring he wanted to dearly-Conlon's head on a platter. Oh, it had happened before; Oliver would give his partners his sister in exchange for their loyalties. Not that she had ever let any of them take her-she would brandish her revolver and threaten to blow their heads off if they even laid one finger on her.

Of course, Rylie Lyner was different. All of the others that Oliver had dealt with had been utterly moronic and easily provoked into pissing their pants when faced with an enwrathed Angel and her notorious revolver. Horance Lyner, Rylie's brother, she could perhaps make do with if confronted with. He was a great lumbering oaf, but equipped with no lights on upstairs.

Yet, Rylie Lyner was different. For he was one of the people on the face of the earth that she was absolutely frightened of.

They continued walking the darkened chipped cobblestone ways that would soon lead them to Gulliver's Inn in the Bronx where they would rendezvous with Spot Conlon and his band of Brooklyn girls.

Angel became acutely aware of her surroundings when she became in tune with the environment just so that she could perhaps pretend that Rylie Lyner was not casually strolling beside her as though they were two blissful lovebirds flirting around Central Park.

When they had left The Hideaway, the bloody sun was only beginning to dip behind the western horizon. It had been black as pitch for the last hour or so that they had been trekking. Oliver had of course specified for Conlon to meet him at dusk. As always, he was a prick as usual and must make a flamboyant late appearance.

Up ahead, a gunshot ripped through the muggy night sky, causing Angel's reverie to shatter. She jumped in her skin and her heartbeat and respiration immediately increased as she looked at the group before her. Horance Lyner and Bull, Bones, and Thor-three massive, moronic hulks that Oliver had brought for intimidation-had gotten hold of a pistol and had shot it towards the sky. All four were obviously utterly blasted, and giggled wildly at the loud noise.

Thor had the gun, and stifled his idiotic guffaws long enough to straighten himself and point the weapon skyward in preparation to shoot it off again. This only caused the other three to break into maniacal, drunken laughter and double over forward.

Angel ceased to see what was so amusing.

Thor cocked the trigger and was about to fire another shot when she saw Flynn's figure stalk past her from behind her and angrily stride over to the four. His bright hair silver in the moonlight and revolver palmed at his side, he finally reached them.

"Just what in the blue fuck do you think you are doing?"  
His sonorous bellow was akin to the fire-shot in that it ruptured the stillness of the night air. She watched as Horance, Bull, and Bones's laughter abated and as they straightened to regard Thor receive a scolding as though Flynn was his mother reprimanding him for taking a lick of pie cooling on the windowsill he shouldn't have. Thor dumbly lowered the pistol in front of him and blankly stared at Flynn as her assassin partner's shrill, cursed-lace yells echoed off the deserted streets.

Angel once more felt smooth fingers find her elbow and she turned to find Rylie Lyner was still beside her. Her stomach dropped. She turned her gaze forward once more, desperate to ignore his evil, burning eyes and the constant shudders that wrought down her spine.

"I sure hope Night will be fine."

Angel turned towards him, utterly stunned by the direction of conversation. It was deliberate, she wildly thought as she read his light smile and glittering eyes. It was deliberate for he knew that she had been lying all along.

She only tossed her head and stared forward, intently surveying the dark silhouette of a crumbling building. "I really wouldn't give a damn."

Rylie chuckled softly and the laugh sent a cold shiver through her. "But at least you put all your animosity aside for one moment to help him get away from that nasty man who was trying to rob him."

She dare not look at him-she could not look at him-for she could feel his victorious gaze boring down upon her at that moment. Those malicious eyes, she knew, could see past the fallacy she had conjured and could discern what had truly happened. Those eyes could see her crouched behind the door. Those eyes could see Conlon and Kelly heatedly arguing. Those eyes could see what could have been the termination of possibly the greatest alliance of the districts. And those eyes could see her sharing those passionate kisses with Conlon that she had fought with all her will with not to succumb to.

She glanced at him, feeling the weight of the summer night against her sticky flesh. "Night doesn't carry a gun. Only Oliver, Flynn, and I do. The man was beating the living shit out of him and I-"

Lyner's smile intensified. "You need not explain yourself, Angel," he said, his voice sweet and restrained. He knew, she reasoned. There was no way that he could not know. The lie had been paper-thin, and he knew it. She could not play it off as though Night had in reality been mugged. She turned to him and looked at him square in the eye, nearly shaking with fear.

"What do you want?" she asked softly.

Lyner's smile intensified. "What do I want?" He looked at her in such a way that Angel closed her eyes and shuddered. He elicited an amused laugh. "Oh, I can see where you'd get such an idea as that, Angel. You are a very beautiful, er, assassin and I'm sure that there aren't many men who wouldn't give their right arm to fuck you." She bestowed upon him a smoldering glare and he continued. "But you are admitting that you lied about what you saw at the Brooklyn lodging house?"

Angel stared at him, her rage dissipating into fear. If she indeed conceded and confessed what she witnessed, then Rylie Lyner could easily saunter over to her brother who was only feet away conversing intently with Night and claim that she had lied to them all. Oliver would be of course enraged with her, and she could not even fathom how much she would utterly dread to be under his wrath-

"Haddox, I don't give a damn what you saw at the lodging house. I do not hold grudge against Spot Conlon the way your brother does. Much as I hate the son of a bitch, I wouldn't out rightly kill him just so that my mind would be appeased. Whatever you saw at the lodging house is between you-and whoever else was there. I don't care what happened; I just need to know if you lied about what you saw."

While he had been talking, Angel had been staring intensely at her feet as she walked. She had been scrutinizing a stain on the tip of her slovenly boot that resembled something akin to dried blood-but it had been too dark to tell. After he finished, she raised her eyes to his.

His charlatan amiable smile and amused glitter in his eyes were gone. Now his visage was somber, serious, and he gazed at her intently, his eyes burning under his spectacles and greasy strands of hair that fell across his brow. She looked away from him and to her brother, who was conversing privately with Night a few paces ahead of them. She turned back to Lyner. She reckoned he could read her mind immaculately.

"Of course you know I have ulterior motives, Angel, but you don't know what they are, nor do you have a choice in what they are. If you try to shrug it off and pass it off on me that it is actually true that Night was mugged and that's how he acquired the nasty gash in his head, then I will be forced to go to your brother and tell him that his dear sister has been sweet-talking him with lies. He won't believe you, Haddox; he's too enamored by me not to believe anything I say. If of course you tell me that you witnessed something else at the lodging house, well then I won't say a peep and Nero Night will just have to go on assuming that the loss of memory of the incident was caused by a mugger."

Angel suddenly felt incredibly nauseous and lightheaded. Her knees buckled from under her and Rylie appropriately caught her, both of his hands clamped on either of her elbows and stabilizing her on her feet. The action had caught the eye of Flynn who had still been endlessly scolding the four oafish newsies for firing the gun. He turned in mid-curse to regard her. His visage was lined with utter suspicion and his green eyes focused intensely on her, glittering violently with mistrust.

Angel knew that Flynn Finesse did not trust Rylie Lyner as far as he could spit, and she knew that she even so much as blinked, he would be over there in a moment to shoot Lyner in the head. Instead, she gave him the only look she could muster as though to forewarn him not to approach them.

She saw Flynn's eyes flicker from her to Lyner, before he begrudgingly turned once more to Thor, who had raised the gun aloft once more and was preparing to shoot it into the sky while Flynn was preoccupied. Flynn's audible hollers once more punctuated the sultry summer night.

She stared unblinkingly at Flynn, who was now unconsciously waving his palmed revolver around with his reprimanding hand gestures. Her insides felt as though she had just taken a grand, extensive trip on a ship and had come down with a fantastic case of seasickness.

She felt Lyner's hot breath play in her ear canal. "So, Angel, what did you really see?"

She abruptly broke away from him and turned to stare him in the eye. She did not realized that in their midst of their conversation they has stopped walking. "What's it to you, Lyner? Why do you give a damn what I saw at the lodging house? You said yourself that you wouldn't out rightly kill Conlon, so why do you care what I saw? Or are you just so eager to bribe me so you can slip your hands down my pants?"

Lyner's lips curled so that his teeth were bared. They had a deep yellow- tinge to them and were very pointed-almost like the teeth of a cannibal. His black eyes sparkled. "What do I want?" he asked, raising an arm and forcefully grasping the back of her neck with a hand. "It's not just your body I want, Haddox, but your trade. I want you as an assassin. I want you to kill those stupid bastards that are still loyal to Sprites and who still revolt against me every chance they get. Leave Midtown and come to Queens. Your brother doesn't give a damn about you, but if you come to Queens you'll be treated well. Come to Queens with me and what you-" He released an ironic laugh. "-did not hear will be safe with me." He paused and regarded her, his eyes glittering like black diamonds. "All that I ask if for a little fuck once and again. Though, I don't think that will be too hard for you, Haddox. You and Finesse have always seemed more than 'assassin' partners-"

All throughout Lyner's words, an intense heat had been flooding Angel's veins and a peculiar buzzing had been resonating in her ears. She realized it as rage. As each passing word slipped from his thin, cracked lips, the heat had ignited and burned trough each and every fiber of her body. The ringing had grown until it was nearly deafening. Her stomach had also been churning, and as he finished, an utterly ferocious ball of pure hate had passed up her throat and out her mouth, like lava erupting from a volcano.

She spat viciously in Lyner's face. His maliciously benevolent expression quickly faded as his face blanched and then turned a scorching shade of scarlet. His eyes glittered violently as he quickly, almost disbelievingly, wiped the spit off of his face with the back of his hand. His eyes shifted to her and his grip on the back of her neck constricted like an unbelievable vice. His thin lips trembled with suppressed rage and his voice was whispery with fury, "You bitch!"

Her eyes were hard and matched Lyner's. Her lips were pulled back in a sadistic sneer. "Go tell my brother, Lyner; you can't blackmail me. I'd rather become Spot Conlon's personal slut then become your assassin."

She fiercely pulled from his inhumanly tight grip and spun on her heel. Her hand involuntarily went to her trouser-band and she pulled out her revolver with a flourish, holding it tight in her grasp. She stalked past her brother and Night, not paying them any heed whatsoever. Her heart thumped in her chest like someone playing a maniacal cadence upon a drum. Her cheeks scorched almost to the point of erupting into flame. Her breathing was broken and labored.

She could never remember of ever being so infuriated in all of her years.

A deep red veil now blinded her blurry vision. It only dissipated when she felt a sharp smack upside the head. The world seemed to crash before her and she immediately halted to hear her name being called out.

"Angel. Angel. Haddox, what in the name of Christ is your deal?"

The anger abruptly dissolved to render her with a sensation of mystification. She turned to find Flynn standing beside her, his green eyes glowing with amusement and a hint of worry. She shook her head to rid herself of the lightheadedness that plagued her. She turned him and offered the best forced smile she could.

"Lyner" was all she could murmur, as she experienced the after-thought of the white-hot rage that had coursed through her only moments before.

Flynn's visage immediately darkened and his eyes glinted dangerously. "What the hell did he do this time, Angel?" he implored in a low voice, unconsciously holding aloft his revolver.

Angel opened her mouth to tattle all that Lyner was blackmailing her with, yet she halted when she stared at Flynn. His eyes were not fixated on her, alas; they were focused to his right, focused on Rylie Lyner who walked in the shadows somewhere behind them. She immediately recognized the alien murderous gleam in the bright green irises. It took her thoughts back to the time when Flynn had so hungrily slaughtered Charley Cicatrice.

It caused her skin to chill and gooseflesh to appear. The look in her partner's eyes reminded her that no matter how much verbose and well- thought prose he would lecture on why he was an assassin; the bottom line was that he was a killer. Perhaps he need not be cold-blooded, but he still butchered his victim's at Oliver's whim-and without a care in the world.

The thought depressed her abysmally. As much as she had been trying sweetly to convince herself that she was simply a misunderstood girl, an innocent Helena Haddox that had been coerced into performing her brother's bidding, all the praying and wishful hoping meant nothing. Absolutely nothing. The horrible dream she experienced the previous night with Conlon everlastingly being her assassin in Hell seemed clearer and more pristine as her future as each moment passed.

She finally turned away from Flynn's eyes, not being able to behold their deadly glint. She almost wished that she could turn about and become Rylie Lyner's personal assassin with all the benefits of a personal whore. Then she would not have to ever deal with Oliver Haddox, Flynn Finesse, or-Spot Conlon ever again.

And what of Conlon?

She elicited a hybrid of a groan and sigh and began lethargically walking once more. For the life of her she did not know. She did not know why she was nearly on the brink of orgasm when she closed her eyes and saw his crystalline cobalt ones boring into hers. She did not know why she had so passionately returned his kisses with a vengeance. Yet she did not know why she had such an itching sensation to brandish her revolver upon him and murder him only to be in favor with her brother.

She was a mess, a complete and utter mess. She had been an abysmal wreck sine the first time that one newsie-she supposed it had been Nero Night-had laughingly bestowed the name Angel of Death upon her after she had seduced her first victim and then shot him. How in the hell was she to elucidate the highs and lows of the emotions she felt when she could not even begin to understand who the hell she had become?

Oh, of course the answer was simple. She could recite the Lord's Prayer until she was blue in the face and then stick the murderous bitch that was her revolver in her mouth and pull the trigger and blow her brains out. Then she could see if all the incessant spouting of prayers had made her right with Him or not, or if she was forced to endure the Inferno dream for all eternity.

Yes, it was quite an agreeable proposition-when she was to enter Gulliver's in and lay eyes upon the man that was her mortal enemy and who she had explicit dreams of copulating with at night. Yet she could not bring herself to take the easy route out.

Why, she did not know. Why the hell don't you just sneak into an alleyway and blow your brains out, she asked herself with a snort as her fingers caressed the handle of her revolver.

I know why, another voice responded from deep within her mind. Because there's still time. There's still time to save your soul.

Angel released a chuckle and became aware of her surroundings one more. The nine of them were still travailing along the endless expanse of cobblestone ways, one melting into another, that would bring them finally to Gulliver's Inn.

Behind her, a gunshot ripped through the sultry dusk sky, and without missing a single beat, Flynn's angry voice rose right up behind it. Obviously he had forgotten about her long ago.

She smiled and shook her head. The neighborhood they roamed now was run down, part of the slums of the Bronx. She looked around, admiring the decrepit burned-out shells of buildings that made up Ace Forrester's territory. Besides the fact that the leader of the Bronx acquired his name for being able to kick the ass of nearly anyone at poker, even that damn gambler in Manhattan, Angel knew very little of him or his boys. The Bronxies (as they were commonly called) always played the neutral card, like Forrester always played the ace in poker. Their tranquility was the likeliest reason that Oliver had decided upon Gulliver's.

Gulliver's was like what The Hideaway was to Midtown; what Tibby's was to Manhattan; and what Fianella's was to Brooklyn (she and Flynn had dared service the café after a few shootings, not all that hot but they did have pretty damn good apple pie.) But unlike The Hideaway and more akin to Tibby's and Fianella's, Gulliver's was a good-natured place where the booze, poker, and laughter never ran dry.

As she crested a hill, she espied a bright orange light radiating from a curtained window of a building that resembled a lone firefly against the night sky. She involuntarily quickened her pace, as her breathing became more rapid. She knew the building where the light came from without even thinking twice-Gulliver's Inn.

As the glowing orange hue beckoned her, her mind's eye hurriedly wandered to what was caged inside the Inn. Would Conlon be there with Kelly and the boys that she had witnessed in his room that morning? Would they be sitting in barstools, their impatience growing with each and every passing moment as they stared unhappily into their dirty mugs filled with varying amounts of whisky? Or would Conlon have decided that he would rather sell his soul to Satan with a contact in blood than wound his pride and apologize to Kelly? Would the Brooklyn leader be there only with his boys and Ace Forrester as the nervous referee?

As she pictured the lanky leader sitting slumped over at the bar counter with that ridiculous slingshot sticking out of his back pocket and the glittering silver key that was missing from its everlasting position about his neck, his words came back to her.

There's still time.

He had just lost nine of his friends that day in a bloody massacre and was most likely drunk out of his mind, though why had he sought out her room and wept to her and told her to save her soul?

She shook her head and elicited a laugh that was drowned out by Flynn's shrill bellows at the three oafs and the one that wielded the weapon. "Yes, Hel, there's still time to save your soul," she whispered under her breath, disbelieving every word she uttered, as she dropped the hand that was caressing her revolver to her side. "You'll save your soul and your ass from going to hell on the day that you fuck Spot Conlon and fall madly in love with him."

It was exactly as she uttered the final word that she felt the arm wrap about her waist in an iron grip that was to rival the one Lyner had imposed upon her neck. She was too utterly stunned to release any sort of noise as to alert the others, and she was hindered from doing so when a strong hand was tightly clamped over her mouth. As the hand covered her hand, her muffled screams began only to end in futility.  
She felt her assailant purloin her from the cobblestone way and flee into an alleyway. As he swiftly disappeared between two run-down buildings holding her writhing, bucking body, she was turned momentarily so that she could regard the dim figures of the others bathed in silver moonlight. They had all halted walking. Bull, Bones, Horance Lyner, and Thor formed a half moon around Flynn who was still screaming at the top of his lungs over their utter stupidity. Oliver stood beside Flynn, agreeing in his fear- inducing low inflection with every word he said. Night stood a few paces from Oliver, his shoulders shaking with laughter and his hands clamped over his mouth. Lyner stood on the outskirts of them all, looking sullen and his spectacles reflecting the light of the moon.

And then they disappeared as blackness consumed her. It was quite easy to deduce that her attacker had pulled her into an alleyway for a strong odor assaulted her nostrils that was only indigenous to long-forgotten alleyways. She would know for she and Flynn had committed many of their hits in alleys. She could also hear the faint skitter of rats.

It was as though her frantic mind finally was able to herald messages to her body once more for she began so squirm and jerk violently to break free. The attacker held her around the waist and was dragging her backwards. Though she bucked so ferociously that she managed to slide out of his grasp-his arms raising to her breasts-before the hold broke all together.

She heard a shrill male voice in the darkness behind her. "Jesus Christ, Shady, she's getting away! Don't let her get away!"

Angel fell to the damp, dirty ground on her spread palms and knees. Her breathing was labored, heart felt as though it was in her mouth, and hair came undone from the ribbon which fluttered to the ground, yet she picked herself up and pushed herself forward; though she was soon brought harshly to the ground once more as her assailant-the name Shady burned furiously in her mind-lunged and caught her round the ankles.

As she felt her writhing form being pulled backwards, she released a hoarse scream and blindly thrashed her legs around. She heard the crack of the bone as her boot collided with her assailant's nose and as he released a howl of agony.

"Jesus fucking Christ! She broke my nose! The bitch broke my fucking nose! Get her, Clem!"

The one with the shattered bridge's voice she recognized undeniably as Shade's (the son of a bitch who tried to kill you) and she would have felt a rush of sick satisfaction if the quick spikes of anxious fear weren't jolting her insides. The initial attack had left her badly shaken-after all, she had only been strolling vulnerably down the street not harming anyone.

Angel pulled herself to her feet, panting like a broken dog and stared down the long stretch of darkened alley that lay before her and her companions. She picked her legs up and began cantering down to the mouth of the alleyway, the stitch in her side from the fall out of the Brooklyn lodging house returning with a vengeance, rendering each step as though her leg was on fire.

She heard Shade's partner's thudding footsteps-the one he had addressed as Clem-as the glitter-shot glass bottles crunched under his weight. She glanced rapidly over her shoulder as she ran, her loose hair blowing in her face and impairing her vision. She opened her mouth to scream, to shriek, to utter any sound at all yet found she was unable to. It was as though her master-control volume had suddenly been muted. Instead, she reached to her side and brandished her revolver. Her hands trembling as she ran, she aligned the weapon as best she could with Clem's silhouette and cocked it. Just as she pulled the trigger, allowing a bullet to rip through the velvety darkness, she saw his form lunge with a great groan and wrap his arms around her ankles. This hindered her stride, and he pulled her awkwardly to the glass-strewn ground. The revolver skittered to a halt, the impact causing another shot to be fired.

She kicked her legs furiously as she desperately attempted to writhe out of his grasp. Yet Clem's grip around her only tightened like a constrictor devouring its prey. She parted her lips to allow her yells to ring down the alley when a hand was clamped brutally over her mouth. She tasted a faint metallic taste on the tip of her tongue-one she soon deduced as being fresh blood.

Her lower limps utterly paralyzed by Clem's vice-like grasp, Angel tried viciously to flail her arms about only to have the soles of heavy boots step on her hands, causing sparring bolts of pain to pulse to the tips of her fingers up her arms. The other hand, the one she could only guess to belong to Shade found its way in a stranglehold upon her neck as his shoe had after he had found her concealed behind his trunk.

The great pressure of his slovenly, mud-slicked boot was relieved from her hands as he quickly brought her to a standing position. He then slammed her harshly into a damp brick wall that made up one of the two barriers of the alleyway. The back of her head brutally collided against it with the impact and for a moment her knees buckled and bursts of cream-colored stars invaded her vision.

"Clem, hold her arms," Shade commanded in a low growl and Clem must have readily agreed for Angel soon felt her arms being pinned above her head, Clem holding them tightly at the wrists. Clem still had one hand firmly around her neck and the other over her mouth. She could only guess that the blood she tasted was his from his shattered nose.

Angel attempted one last futile motion to wriggle from their grasp, yet Shade's strangle hold over her neck became so that she was gasping for breath. She abruptly halted, conceding defeat.

"Good girl," Shade said in a sardonic tone. She could only imagine that in the darkness that blinded his visage from her that he was laughing at her. His voice soon became rough and hard. "Clem, go get her revolver. Those bastards will be over here soon and we need it if we want this plan to go off without a hitch."

She knew that Clem had left for the grip on her wrists immediately loosed and she brought her arms to her sides again. She was about to put up one hell of a fight once more, yet her breath was immediately purloined from her when she felt the cool barrel of a pistol being pressed against the soft flesh of her right temple. Her body immediately grew rigid and she would have elicited a gasp if the leeway allowed.

The pressure applied on the barrel grew as he pushed it deeper into her skull.

"Here it is, Shade," Nightshade said through the darkness. Angel could only assume that he had retrieved her revolver.

"Good, Clemmy. Hold my pistol for me, will you," Spade asked in a casual tone.

She felt the gun switch hands to Clem and she felt the barrel waver against her flesh. Clem was shaking. As the exchange was taking place, Angel found this as a window of opportunity and began to buck viciously under Shade's body that was pressed tightly against hers.

In response, Shade's grip on her neck tightened until it felt as though her trachea would crush under his fist. She released a broken wheeze and immediately fell silent.

"If you're the stupid bitch I think you are you better not do that again. I should have blown your stupid whore head away that day but the boss told me not too. Well guess what? He's not here. This is the only way to get revenge against stupid goddamn Midtown murders like you-to blow your fucking brain to bits. Clem, cock the trigger."

Clem cocked the trigger.

In the blackness, Angel heard what sounded curiously like a flint being struck just to the side of her head. A moment later, a pale orange match roared to life, revealing the faces of her Brooklyn attackers.

She stared into the same horrible face that had been suspended over her just a few days before. Shade's eyes as dark as ink wells reflected the pale orange light. His flesh was a hideous mixture of blood and sweat. His black hair was matted across his brow and his nose was a shattered atrocity-oozing blood down his chin. She wriggled in his grasp, horrified at his appearance.

He smiled, a grim smile, as she stood regarding him with held breath and wide eyes. He turned to Clem who stood to his left. "So what do you think we should do with her Clemmy before we shoot her? Do you think we should have a quick fuck with her up against this wall like the slut she is?"

She released a muffled cry, her lips parting and tasting more of his coppery blood. Shade smiled. Clem's grip on the pistol tightened. "Trying to say something, sweetheart?"

Shade unclamped his hand from her mouth and loosed his grip on her neck. Angel's knees immediately buckled from under her as she inhaled a deep sum of air, trying to collect her breath.

"Were you trying to say something, Angel of Death, or were my ears deceiving me?"

She raised her eyes to his, her respiration still heavy and labored. Her steel-hued eyes cast him an impossibly hateful glare. "What-what do you want?"

A smirk crossed Shade's lips under his mangled nose and he exchanged glances with Clem. "She wants to know what we want, Clem." He abruptly turned on her and tightened his grip on her neck, chocking her once again. His dark eyes glittered with a malevolent fire. "I want you dead. We all want you dead. Every single last newsie in Brooklyn once you dead-but he won't let us. No, good old Spot Conlon thinks it best not to partake in any rash behavior. He actually attended this little war-council with no weapons. Can you believe it? No damned weapons whatsoever. But do you know what? I'm taking things into my own hands. Once I murder you it's gonna prove what a brave leader Sam Shade will make. Braver than any Spot Conlon for sure. Don't you dare give me that look, sister. You know damned well you deserve this. Do it, Clem."

Staring at Shade's face in the quivering flame, Angel felt the pistol tremble against her temple. She stared defiantly at him. "Looks like your boy Clem here is too much of a fucking pansy to shoot a girl."

Shade's expression twisted into an expression of utmost hatred in a heartbeat. "Give me the gun, Clem; I'll shoot the stupid bitch myself."

In a moment's span, Angel felt the gun being retracted from her temple as Shade's hand temporarily left her throat; she collapsed against the damp wall slightly and inhaled deeply in the glorious, warm air. Yet, she was up in a second, and a look crossed her face-a face not indifferent to Flynn's murderous gleam-as she gathered saliva in her mouth and spat viciously in Shade's face.

Shade was still bickering with Clem when he felt the spit and turned on Angel, releasing a protesting curse. Yet Angel had already taken off. She ran furiously down the alleyway, glass shattering under her shoes and grimy rats skittering around her. Her bad leg felt as though she flesh was searing with each step. Her neck pulsed angrily due to the wake of Shade's impossible grip. She ran, the night air blowing back her sweaty, blood stained hair; she ran as though in a surreal day dream (night dream,) only keeping her gaze fixated to the mouth of the alley.

And then she saw it-the heavenly form of Flynn. As she drew closer, she could see the utter shock laced into his handsome face as he stood frozen to the ground, as though unsure what to do.

She was nearly to the mouth, nearly to Flynn, when she heard the irrefutable shot of a gun rip through the bellows of Sam Shade and Clem. A heartbeat after, she felt the pain in her lower left calf. It was as though a piece of white-hot metal had been embedded in her flesh, only to bloom into a full-blown inferno. Her entire leg felt as though it was on fire; the pain was indescribable and excruciating. It radiated from the bullet and pulsed through her entire body.

Angel struggled to make it to the end of the alley, though the intense pain was too great and she collapsed heavily to the ground, a shard of broken glass cutting the flesh of a palm.

"ANGEL!"

She was on the ground, doused in a cold sweat besides the blatant heat of the night, when she heard the scream that was undeniably her assassin- partner's. Though her eyes were closed and she felt the black world swirling violently before her, she could not mistake the pure terror that was in his voice.

The blackness swam before her, as though it was some morbid replica of the river behind the Brooklyn lodging house that she and Flynn carelessly fed their victims to. As she felt her mind slowly slipping from her, she heard a great rise in voices; voices that were just not talking at conversation intonation, but voices, voices she had not heard the likes of since the Armageddon.

A groan involuntarily escaped her lips as she heard a quick rain of fire. What she heard around her was not what Conlon and Oliver had agreed on-they had agreed on a peaceful war-council to discuss when they would annihilate each other. Now it just sounded as though they had causally decided to skip the war-council altogether, bare their weapons (slingshots against guns) and just get down to the basis of what was bound to happen-kill each other in an all out bloody massacre.

Audible, raw voices shouting chaotically at each other with no real purpose, Angel felt a pair of strong hands slide under her arms and lift her to her feet. For all the world that was feverishly tossing before her in the blackness, she released an unearthly howl in pain as she was propped on her injured leg. She immediately felt herself crumple to the ground once more over the blinding pain.

A semi-conscious realization dawned upon her that she had not just collapsed voluntarily to the ground, but the person that had been holding her collapsed. A cold wash of panic immediately rolled over her, gratefully subduing the pain for a moment, as she opened her eyes.

The very first thing that she realized was that she was sprawled on the cobblestones in front of Gulliver's Inn. The second thing she took notice of was them; they stood before her before the façade of Gulliver's-all that had rendezvoused in Conlon's quarters previously that day. Granted, she knew it was them, but she took them in as a blur. For she only saw Conlon.  
The bellows had long since subsided and all that remained was a ghastly silence, the only sound recognizable that of a dog baying faintly in the distance. She stared up at Conlon. She stared into his azure eyes that glittered so ferociously that they must have had a life of their own. Her gaze wandered his flesh that had turned a deathly ashen hue, making the eyes even starker. And then her gaze wandered down to his mid-torso to view the ebony pistol that was held out from him in a downward angle.

Impossible sickness washed over her, and she had to control herself from retching where she was crumpled on the cobblestones. She slowly turned her head, and already knew what she expected to see. Though, the actual physical sight of it caused her stomach to drop, the world to spin, her heart to sear, and the tears that had for so many days welled inside her to spill forth liberally.

Flynn Finesse, her only friend in the world, lay sprawled on his back beside her. The moonlight caught the vacant eyes that glimmered no longer; caught the bright hair that was a pale silver in the night; and caught the oozing dark black stain that spread rapidly, soaking the material of his gray shirt.

She stared at him a moment longer in silence as she tried desperately to comprehend it. He was dead. Flynn, dear sweet Flynn who had told her that she wouldn't always be Oliver's assassin, that she would lead a wonderful life, was dead. He was dead and had been killed—by him.

A hand on Flynn's chest being doused with blood from the wound in his chest and her own pain forgotten, Angel slowly turned her head slowly to regard Conlon once more. He still stood erect and lanky in the moonlight, his blue eyes sparkling madly, and the pistol still held in front of him.

Her eyes fell to the pistol that had taken the life of her friend. The silver moonlight reflected upon its shiny black surface, causing it to grin ghastly under the bone-smooth face of the full moon.

And then something clicked within her. The desperation that she had felt over Flynn's death was soon replaced by more powerful emotion-hatred. This primordial slowly pumped itself to every fiber in her body, slowly fanning, slowly growing. It was tenfold more passionate than the fire she had felt in her leg due to the bullet. It welled and sweltered inside her, causing her blood to heat and her heartbeat to thump madly. Gazing unblinking into his indifferent, murderous eyes only gave it more potency.

He had shot Flynn. Midtown had not even started it this time-it had been that goddamned Brooklyn, that goddamned Shade and Clem (who, it she would have looked were dead at the foot of the alley with Flynn's signature bullet-hole-to-the-head.) Flynn had only been trying to protect her from them, and here their heartless, ruthless son-of-a-bitch leader had shot and killed him so thoughtlessly.

As these thoughts streamed nonsensically through her mind, her blood boiled, and a white-hot, blinding rage overtook her. Uttering an incomprehensible scream, Angel lifted herself off her knees and grasped behind her at the nearest weapon at her disposal. It happened to be her brother's black pistol, a weapon which had seen a fantastic string of deaths on its behalf, and somehow seemed fitting for Conlon. She pulled it from his outstretched hand before he had time to protest and immediately turned on Conlon again.

Without thinking twice, she blindly aimed the murderous pistol at him and pulled the trigger. It was only a fraction of a second before the bullet found him-somewhere in his shoulder at that. The impact and sheer shock drove him backward and some of those quickest that were near him were able to catch him.  
This was the catalyst that brought upon the bloody war that Oliver Haddox was yearning for. Never mind such frills as elementary war-councils; he wanted to pass right on over to the good stuff. He would have his sister to later thank for that.

As the leader of Brooklyn's feet gave way from under him and he collapsed-hopefully mortally wounded, she thought at the time-the scene outside Gulliver's Inn dissolved into complete and utter chaos. Cries and sobs were elicited for those loyal to Conlon as others broke into bellowing war-cries that echoed down the desolate street.

Leave them be to fight. Angel dropped the weapon that had added one more tally to its infamous list of lives taken-and the fantastic rage passed as quickly as it had come. She turned to Flynn. All she was left with in the wake of the supreme hatred was cold, brutal reality. She could only stare into his once beautiful green eyes that sparkled no more as they stared unblinking into the cold moon.

She didn't give a damn if every last one of them around her died; the damage had already been done. Flynn was dead. Her only friend in the world was dead. Flynn had always said that she would someday get out of Midtown, and when he spoke of her new life she could never think of spending it without him. He had been her only saving grace in her brother's district; without him she surely would have killed herself ages ago.

But now he was gone. And now she was sure she would never be able to leave Midtown.

She collapsed over the fallen assassin, wondering whether he was in heaven or in hell right now. She buried her cheek next to his cool one, her tears cascading onto his lifeless flesh. Her hair fell around her, the ends tinting a deep red due to the blood that still pooled from his wound.

She did not know how long she sat over his cadaver, sobbing more animally than humanly, and rocking back and forth on her knees. She did not know how many were dead around her, and did not care.

She only cared that Flynn was dead.

It was only when she was brutally struck upside the head by the base of a gun that consciousness left her and her cries were murdered, as she collapsed onto the corpse of Flynn Finesse.


	13. Chapter 11

CHAPTER ELEVEN

"Helena, please keep your head straight. You don't want me to make your braid crooked, do you?"

She felt a pair of soft hands come from behind her and gently, yet purposely, press against her small cheeks, aligning her head forward once more so that she was staring at the warped plank of wood that served as the door to the tiny hovel.

"Sorry, Mommy," Helena chirped in an apologetic voice that had yet not been hardened by time.

As her eyes followed the outline of the door, she felt her mother's warm smile burn from behind her. "You needn't apologize, Helena, you needn't ever apologize for anything."

Helena smiled contently as she felt her mother's slender fingers rake through her golden hair, softly platting it in the same way that she had seen it that morning on a wealthy woman in town.

They sat in comfortable silence for a few moments, the only sound the crackling of the warm fire as the orange flames licked inside the decrepit hearth. As her mother was finishing and tying the braid off with the black velvet ribbon that had been hers as a little girl, the antediluvian floorboards issued forth protests and an affable baritone rang out behind them.

"Jules, had Ollie come home yet? I'm starting to get worried about him. I feel just awful about putting all this pressure on him of being sole breadwinner. If it hadn't been for that accident my blasted leg would still be fine and I'd still be at the factory-"

Her mother tied off the ribbon into an exceptionally neat bow before flipping the plait over Helena's shoulder. She placed both of her hands on her daughter's small shoulders and whispered into her ear, "Go run along to the mirror in my bedroom, Helena, and see how pretty you look. Don't take long for dinner will be soon-whenever your brother arrives home."

Helena eagerly nodded as she dashed off the three-legged stool she had been occupying for the past quarter-hour and to the room her parents shared together. It was nothing spectacular by any standards, just a tiny room in a tiny house in the slums of Brooklyn. But if there were one possession that was more lavish than any of the other scanty belongings, it was the mirror that was an heirloom passed down from generation to generation on her mother's side.

She quickly approached the hastily-constructed vanity that had been confiscated from the rubbish of one of the wealthier families on Main Street (the Rockwells they had been, if she remembered correctly,) and went straight for the second drawer down on the left hand side. Her small hand opened the drawer and there she saw the exquisite mirror lying amidst other meaningless junk, like a rare diamond among many zirconiums.

She picked it up by its delicate handle and turned it over and over, observing it carefully. The actual handle and backing itself was crafted from some type of ebony stone that had tarnished in some places but still remained thoroughly glossy. The back had been wrought with pure silver that formed a scrawling design, almost like a rose bramble, that crissed and crossed and snaked its way down the handle.

Helena turned it over so that her reflection was evident in the mirror shards. She smiled and her reflection smiled back at her as she held the mirror parallel to her face. The silver mirror always reminded her of the lake that froze over in the winter that was a few blocks away in the park.  
She touched her fingers to where her café-au-lait hued brow converged with the first wisps of pale blonde hair and ran them all the way down the long braid to the very end that was tossed over her shoulder. Her first finger and thumb remained on the black velvet ribbon, and she ran it between her fingers, relishing in its soft touch.

The slamming of the front door brought her eyes from her reflection as she stared out of the opened door. She pricked her ears and could hear the conversation clearly for sound carried effortlessly in the small home.

"Son! Welcome home! How was your day of selling newspapers?" her father was asking in his cheery baritone.

So Oliver was home. She quickly replaced the mirror in with all the other myriad piles of junk that were unworthy of it and slammed the drawer shut. She made her way out of the bedroom and into the small parlor that served as both living room and dining room.

Oliver was closing the door behind him so she was only able to snatch a glance of his lanky back. He did not answer their father, only turned around. Helena could hear her mother calling her to help set the table for dinner, yet she did not move from her place in front of the crackling fire. She only kept her eyes to her brother and father.

Oliver had sprung up a remarkable two feet since reaching adolescence and was only a few feet shy of rivaling her father's height. Naturally, he possessed a gangly appearance: his feet and hands were much too large for his thin, skeletal body. His dirty thatch of greasy brown hair fell over his brow, framing his piercing, chilling dark eyes. One of his eyes-his left eye-was black and swollen. Deep red blood oozed from the nostrils of his hooked nose and down his chin. His lower lip was split and puffy.

Her father's good humor had been lost. "Son, who did this to you?" he asked, his voice full of concern as he reached one hand out to his son.

Oliver, still standing by the door, flinched away ferociously akin to a wounded animal. His eyes regarded his father with unabashed hate. "I told you," he said in a soft snarl, "just like I've told you for the past month. It's that Spot Conlon. That goddamn Spot Conlon. He hasn't given me a break; he'll never give me a break."

"Son," her father said genially, "I'm sure it's just boys being boys-"

"Bullshit!" Oliver shrieked, his temper getting the best of him. Helena's father reeled from the outburst. "I can't take it anymore, Dad, I can't take it anymore. Today-just today-he and some of his cronies beat the ever loving living shit out of me just because I was selling in a place that he wanted. When I signed on to be the families' personal slave I thought it would only be for a few weeks-not this. Not this. I mean, when the hell is your leg going to heal-"

"Now listen here, young man-" her father bellowed, yet Oliver interrupted him.

"No you listen to me!" he screeched, the noise like that of finger nails scraping against a chalkboard to Helena. "I cannot be a newsie for you any longer! I can't and I refuse! I have dreams too, Dad, dreams! I want to go back to school and get an education! I don't want to be a newsie forever- not while I have to live in fear of Spot-fucking-Colon each and every day."

"Oliver Haddox, do not take that tone of voice with me under my roof!" Her soft-spoken father's normally genial voice had risen to a great tremble, and his bellows filled the miniscule home.

The heated argument between her father and brother was sending cold pangs of fear through her. It was not wise to tempt her brother on the subject of the profession he had had to take up because of their father's accident at the factory. She rather fancied him insane and wont to break any moment of any day.

She shifted her gaze back to her brother. His eyes sparkled wildly against his wane skin that was pulled tightly against the skeletal-like bone structure of his face. "I'll take any goddamn tone I want under this roof! I'm the one that's working, not you!" he raged, stalking past his father and shoving Helena out of his path to his room.

He halted suddenly and turned around, but Helena did not see his face. "Don't worry, Henry," he hissed in a low whisper, "you're leg won't be hurting for you for too long now."

No, she did not see the chilling grin that alighted upon his lips as he turned and slowly glided to his room, shutting the door with a soft click behind him. Her eyes had been trained solely on the ebony pistol that was sticking out of the back of his pants, the ebony pistol that glittered ghastly in the dim light of the cozy home.

She awoke to the audible bang. She sat bolt-upright in her slanted bed, the darkness of the starless night filling her room. Her pulse raced and she was scared and disoriented. She had been dreaming some wonderful dream of that Spot Conlon her brother so detested (she had spied on her brother on a few occasions just to catch a glimpse of him,) when she had been brutally awakened by the gunshot. Of course she did not know it was a gunshot, but the word just seemed to settle so smugly in the folds of her mind that that's what she naturally assumed it to be.

Helena was trembling, unbeknownst to her, and covered in a cold, damp sweat so that her flimsy nightgown adhered to her back, despite the warmth of the muggy June night. She tried to force her eyes to adjust to the darkness, but they were protesting and all she saw was a sinister blackness.

She realized quite belatedly that after the gunshot a disturbing silence had ensued, save the hammering of her heartbeat in her ears. Her ears absurdly pricked, she caught the slight creaking of a floorboard outside of her room. She snapped her head to the opened door of her room and caught sight of a pale yellow light that spilled down the hallway, illuminating the walls outside of her room.

She heard another series of deliberately hushed footsteps against the boards, and the light grew brighter outside of her room. "Mommy?" she asked in a voice that she did not recognize as her own, a voice that was absolutely constricted in fear. "Daddy?" The intensity of the pale light incremented and he could now discern a shadow cast upon the wall. "Oliver?"

At the name of her brother, she heard a crash and saw a darkened silhouette step from the shadows and into her doorway.

"Oliver?" she asked, incredulity laced into her voice. "Oliver what are you doing outside my room-"

Her words died immediately and brutally on her lips as her brother staggered slowly into her room and stepped into the bar of silver moonlight that filtered in from the tiny window. His greasy hair was awry and stuck up at all ends. His skin was pale, rendering his hideous eyes stark against his flesh. He wore an expression in his eyes that she had never seen before. His eyes were wild, glazed-over, and utterly insane as they stared down at his hands that he held before his face.

It was when she saw the blood that she began to scream as though she were being exorcised to rid the devil of possessing her immortal soul. The blood, the dark red dripping blood, was smattered all over him. It coated his lower jaw, almost like a comically red beard. His shirt that she had thought to be black had in its genesis been white-it was the thick maroon blood that made it a darker hue. But it was his hands, oh his grisly hands!

As he staggered towards her, she paralyzed and screaming passionately on the bed, his flickering eyes stared at his hands that were utterly doused with thick scarlet blood that dripped uncontrollably to the floor.

As he reached her bed, he halted and raised his vacant, crazed eyes to her. "They didn't listen to me, Hel," he babbled nonsensically, "they didn't listen to me so they had to pay." Intense fury crossed over his countenance and his eyes blazed as he clamped his bloody hands down hard upon her small shoulders. The blood of her parents quickly saturated the thin material of the white nightgown, and she could feel it ooze onto her cold skin. "I said they didn't listen to me!" he bellowed above her hysterical shrieks. "They didn't know, they didn't understand! He caught me sneaking out! He caught me sneaking out with my gun to blow that motherfucking Conlon's head off. But he stopped me. But I couldn't be stopped-Stop your screaming, you bitch! Come on!"

He viciously clasped one hand about her wrist as he pulled her harshly so that she fell from the bed to the ground below like a rag-doll, splinters embedding themselves into her soft knees and palms.

"We're going! We're going now!" he roared, pulling her across the ground by her wrist, sobbing and screaming. "Stop it, you bitch! They're dead!" He yanked Helena forcefully across the splintered floorboards to the smeared window that looked out into the back of the house. "We're going! We're leaving! Stop crying, you bitch!"

"Angel, are you crying?"

Angel opened her eyes as she involuntarily bit her lower lip to the point of drawing blood. Flynn Finesse's glittering eyes with the stunning green under tints gazed back at her, like some kind of eyes belonging to that of a cat. They had a touch of worry in them.

She closed her eyes once more and placed her head heavily back down upon the ratty pillow as she felt him thrust harder into her. She brought her hands from under the sheets that had become entangled under their bodies and coiled her arms about his neck, plunging her fingers into his wild blond hair that had been freed from the queue. She arched her back under him as she felt a painful tremor rake through her.

She quickly shook her head in the negative, but she could not deny the mortal proof of the hot tears that stung her eyes and clung to her lashes. She inhaled through her mouth sharply as an excruciating jar of pain rocked her body.

She felt Flynn suddenly halt as he raised his sweaty chest from hers. The pain was indescribable; it washed through her like molten lava, incinerating every fiber in her body. Her jaw was clenched and her eyes still clamped shut, her expression twisted into one of mortal pain.

As another spasm raked her, she felt one of Flynn's knuckles gently sweep below her left eye. "Let me tell you, you're one hell of a horrible liar. You are crying."

Here, Oliver had said, quietly slipping her the ebony revolver. She had stared at it void of emotion as he had continued.

You're going to need this, Hel, he had said, but she had interrupted him. Don't you dare call me that, she had hissed, don't you dare call me Hel. Helena Haddox died whenever you shot our parents and you brought me to this shithole, Midtown. Call me Angel. Angel of Death-that's what that little oily bastard Night that you met the other day called me. Angel of Death. I guess he thought it would be a big riot to name an assassin Angel.

She had roughly thrown the revolver back to Oliver. An assassin, she had cried, Jesus Christ, Oliver, you want me to be your assassin? Your assassin- you're fucking assassin? I won't do it. I refuse to do it.

Flynn slowly withdrew from her and lay beside her. His broad, perspiration slicked chest was pressing into her side. "Angel, come on. Tell me. What's the deal?"

She clenched her eyes together, trying to ignore the thought of the ebony revolver that was behind the pillow her head was laying on at that very moment. She could not denounce what was worse: the pain she experienced from giving herself to a man for the first time or the hot tears that streamed down her face from the notion that she was now to assassinate him.

Angel opened her eyes and stared at him. In spite of the soreness her body was encountering, she could not help but have her breath taken away by his raw beauty. Her eyes traced the angles of his visage, the full lips, and the marvelous emerald cat-eyes. The flaxen hair that touched his shoulders had come free from its binding and fell wildly around his neck and across his brow, offsetting those eyes.

All right, Angel, Oliver had hissed, shoving the weapon back at her. I'll call you any damn name you want but just take the gun. Don't give me that look! I've already explained how important this hit is if I have any intentions of rising as a leader.

She had stared at him insolently and sibilated, You only told me his name, Oliver. So why is he so important to you that you need him dead?

Oliver's eyes had glittered intrinsically as he had explained to her, His name's Flynn Finesse. He is one of the greatest assassins this side of New York. He's almost like a bounty hunter; he doesn't work for only one person-

You still haven't given me just cause to kill him, Oliver, she had said shortly.

I'm getting there, Angel, Oliver had said impatiently, drawing out the syllables of her new appellation, if you'd give me fucking three minutes to explain myself. I've been hearing rumors lately that he's been working for Rylie Lyner. You know, the mean son of a bitch up in Queens. Anyhow, I know that Lyner's going to send some of his thugs out after us, I've hear he doesn't take well to rivals-

You mean send thugs out after you. So you basically want me to knock off this Flynn Finesse because he's working for Lyner and you think Lyner will send him to Midtown to kill you, she had asked.

Oliver had nodded, In a nutshell.

She had looked at him lazily, And just how the hell do you expect I do that?

Oliver had simply shrugged, Seduce him.

A smile played upon Flynn's lips like a shadow of the light as his eyes glittered benevolently. "What? What is it, Angel? You were just staring at me with this blank look."

Angel quickly shook her head and pulled herself into a sitting position, her back against the peeling headboard of the bed in the run-down inn in Midtown. She tugged the shabby cream-colored sheets to her neck, covering her bare flesh, as she hastily brushed away the tears from under her eyes.

Flynn had sat back, the covers draped around his legs, his solemn gaze fixated upon her. "Angel, just tell me why you're crying? I mean, we seemed to hit it off great at the tavern before this-"

His form grew blurry in her tear-stained vision. She placed a hand to her mouth to stifle her sobs as they finally broke.

But Oliver, she had said quietly, realization of what she was about to do finally dawning upon her, I don't want to sleep with him.

Oliver had turned ferociously on her, his eyes cold. I don't give a fuck what you want, he hissed in that low voice, you're mine now, Angel. You owe your life to me. I saved you from those people you still refer to as our parents. I save you and you don't give me an ounce of respect. If you don't want to be my assassin you can go out and be a little whore and sell your sweet ass to any man that is looking for a go. But I can see you don't want that. Now, you are going to get Finesse up in an inn room-I'd recommend the Devil's Head-it's the seediest tavern around this God-forsaken area. Get him drunk, give him a quick go, and then shoot him for Christ sake. It's not as hard as you think it is.

But, Oliver, she had protested, her voice starting to become strangled with tears, I've never slept with anyone and I've never shot anyone. I don't want to. I don't know how to. Why are you making me your assassin? I'm only a stupid girl, I don't know anything. I'm not any good at it!

While she had been speaking he had started to the door of her room, yet he had halted and turned around to regard her. The wicked gleam in his eyes had caused her breath to immediately catch in her throat. Oh, don't underestimate yourself, he had said. You soon will be. You're no longer Helena Haddox, you're the Angel of Death from this moment on.

And he had shut the door behind him to leave her to collapse to the floor as the sobs overwhelmed her.

"Angel! Jesus Christ, why are you crying?" Flynn asked, a note of panic in his voice, holding a hand out to her shaking shoulder.

She roughly shook off the gesture and turned to stare him squarely in the eye. "Do you want to know why I'm crying? Do you really want to know, Flynn Finesse?" she asked in a whisper, not being able to trust her voice. She reached under the flat, moldy pillow and brandished the immaculate revolver, holding it aloft. She only stared at him as his eyes went wildly to the weapon. He was pushing himself away from her, most likely trying to reach for his own revolver that was jumbled among his pile of cloths that were strewn across the floor. "This is why I'm crying."

"Helena, what do you have?"

She felt her stomach tighten as the blistering tears pricked the corners of his eyes. He had risen slowly out of his chair and was making his way towards her. She could only stand still for she did not trust her legs without buckling from under her. He approached her steadily, his blue eyes burning upon her with a vengeance and she knew that he could stare into her immortal soul with those eyes.

He finally reached her and he placed his hands around the wrists of her outstretched hands and the object that she held in her palms. The grip became tighter.

"Helena, you're shaking," he said quietly, his eyes to the object displayed to him.

She choked back a sob. She could see him studying it intently, though her eyes needn't waver from his beautiful face for she had gazed intently at the object the entire sojourn to Brooklyn: the glass vial with the rounded body and slim neck that was covered by the white handkerchief.

"Flynn gave it to me," she whispered, her voice wavering erratically due to the tears.

His piercing eyes immediately flickered up to hers. "You can't, Helena."

Her body had become so numb that she could not even feel the smoldering tears that slid liberally down her cheeks. "I can and I will because you are my soul, Jonathan Conlon."

At the words, her last thread of sanity shattered and she allowed the sobs to consume her entirely as she felt him press himself against her and take her cheek in his palm as he raised her head and brought his lips to hers.

The dreams came to her endlessly, as she lay in the deep, dark confines of oblivion. They came, one meshing seamlessly with the other. They would burn excruciatingly bright and vivid in her mind at their prime, like the rays of some white-hot luminosity. And then they would fade as quickly as they came, extinguishing like a candle, leaving only lasting wisps of remembrance.

It wasn't until that Angel awoke from the swirling black haze of unconsciousness, that she could recall any of the brilliant and candid dreams that haunted the realms of her psyche.

She awoke to voices.

"Jesus H. Christ, Finesse! You gotta be kidding me! You gotta be cheating, you know, have some fake cards up your sleeves or some shit like that. That's the twelfth time in a row you've won."

A deep chuckle came. "It's just natural luck of the draw, Halloran, pure luck of the draw. And besides, I'm not even wearing sleeves, nonetheless a shirt."

"Yeah, but you sure'd know something about luck."

Indeed consciousness had been restored to her, though it was still as though she were in a dark, hazy dream. Her brain was drenched with various emotions and sensations that were residue from the myriad dreams and she could not seemingly banish the site of two brilliant indigo eyes from being emblazoned in her mind. She inhaled deeply, restoring life to her, and pressed her lips involuntarily together, tasting the lasting remnants of a kiss that had seemed so real-a kiss that tasted of hot tears, stale nicotine, and dated rum.

She was now hearing the conversation that was taking place around her quite pristinely. She opened her eyes and found her vision blurry, but soon it focused. She realized that she was staring at the ceiling that she had numerous times before-the rotting wooden ceiling that was over her mattress of the third-floor of the Midtown headquarters. She felt the God-forsaken mattress under her back and the flat, moldy pillow under her pounding head.

And she heard the voice.

"Oh, come on, Hal! You're not just gonna quit because I'm kicking your ass, now are you?"

She did not hear the sullen response ("Of course I would, Finesse. You think I'm gonna give you charity just cause you were shot by Brooklyn 'imself? I think not) for her breath had caught painfully in her throat and the she felt the gears in her brain overloading at that very moment as she tried to process the sheer incredulity of the breezy baritone voice.

Oh come on Hal you're not just gonna quit because I'm kicking your ass now are you. She stared unblinkingly at the ceiling. No, it can't be, the practical-sensible portion of her psyche screamed. It's not possible. It can't be him because you were there. You saw the blood and the blood and oh God the blood. You saw his face, how lifeless it was. You know it's not true because you were there over his damned corpse for Christ's sake, his corpse! You cried over his corpse. It's not true. It's not-

"Oh, come on, Halloran. Don't be like that. I can't do anything else but play cards and who am I supposed to play with? Angel? Yeah, I can play with Angel! If you prop her up and give her the cards maybe I can still play with her while she's stone-cold knocked out!"

But oh God, the rebellious part of her mind raged. It is him. It's Flynn.

But Flynn's dead, Practical-Sensible scolded. He's dead. This is just another dream you're having.

Angel eradicated the embattled voices by raising herself to a sitting position and twisting her torso so that she faced the wall with the small window that allowed the sunlight to flood the room.

She had never known in all her years tears to strike so swiftly and with such passion. She needed only to steal one glance before the sobs rocked her body and the sizzling tears streamed down her face.

Flynn Finesse sat with his back against the wall under the window. A sullied pillow was behind his back and a pile of soiled, torn covers were tangled around his legs. He wore only a pair of russet-colored trousers and his broad chest was bare save for the massive, bloodied white bandage that was adhered to his right shoulder. His bright hair that touched his shoulders was wild and unkempt, falling across his brow and catching the sun. A fuming cigarette hung from his bottom lip, the smoke curling above his head, and an opened glitter-shot bottle of whiskey sat companion to him. He sat with his legs stretched before him, crossed at the ankles, and a pile of playing cards fanned out in one hand. Hal Halloran sat beside him, crossed-legged, holding a similar grouping of cards.

Angel felt her stomach twist violently as she regarded his beautiful living, breathing form. She nearly did not tempt herself to believe it true; to believe that he was actually animate flesh and blood. She released a tremendous choke that caught her assassin-partner's attention and caused those glorious, sparkling emerald eyes to flicker from his cards to hers. His countenance glowed as a smile alighted upon his lips.

"So you've finally woke up! We thought you were going to sleep for another twenty years like old Rip Van Winkle himself!'

Her gaze slowly shifted from Flynn to Halloran who watched her with gaped lips and beady eyes. As Angel turned back to Flynn, she slowly rose to her feet and, in measured strides, approached him. She could interpret the unabashed amusement in his eyes as he read her incredulous gaze as though he were some breed of phantasm.

Her eyes wide and her full lips a gap, Angel sank to her haunches beside him, her gaze flickering about his face, recalling all of his wonderful golden features. She brought a hand to his left cheek, cupping it in her gentle grasp, as she turned his smiling face towards hers.

"Flynn, is it really you?" she asked in barely above a whisper, for she did not trust her trembling voice that was apt to succumb to tears at any moment.

His shining grin grew broader as he placed a hand upon hers that rested upon his face. "No, Angel. I'm actually Hal Halloran. Flynn Finesse is sitting over there."

He motioned slightly with his head to Halloran, who still sat crossed- legged, but looked keen to bolt out of the room due to Angel's unusual behavior.

Her eyes rapidly scanned his face as she felt her heart swell in her chest and shatter all over again. The tears pricked her eyes and ran copiously down her cheeks. "I thought you were dead!" she wailed. "How can you be alive? I was there-over your body! I saw the blood! I saw the blood-"

The sobs consumed her aching, exhausted soul and she fell against Flynn, burying her clammy, sweaty brow into his chest and clawing at his broad torso with splayed fingers. His jovial disposition soon fell and he turned his solemn gaze to Halloran. He only need slightly motion with his head towards the door before Halloran was quickly to his feet and to the door. When Flynn heard the door click behind him, he turned back to Angel.

Her words were utterly incomprehensible for a fair ten minutes. The raw tears constricted her words and the sheer, inexpressible exultation and rapture she felt at his being alive only made them fall with more passion. Flynn only held her, his strong arms around her heaving shoulder blades and his chest dampened with her tears. But he did not care.

Angel's cries soon became less and less potent and she finally pulled away from Flynn, drawing herself into a sitting position. Brushing away unshed tears with the tips of her fingers, she gazed unwaveringly at him with raw eyes. His emerald stare glittered back austerely.

She was thankful for her external hide, for she was sure that without it, every part of her would have crumbled like a deteriorating fortress. She deeply inhaled deeply to compose herself before she spoke. She tried vehemently not to allow her eyes to wander to the bloodied bandage that marked where he had almost been fatally wounded, but they would not allow.

"I thought you were dead," she murmured softly, her eyes solely trained on the blood-spattered dressing that covered his right shoulder, extending down to his chest.

Flynn shifted his weight, presumably uncomfortable by the notion. "So did everyone else, Haddox."

She shifted her gaze to his, her eyes smoldering with unshed tears. "No," she gritted, "no. I saw you, Flynn, I saw you. I saw the blood and I saw you weren't breathing and I saw how cold your skin was and I saw-I saw your eyes. They were so-dead. You were dead. I leaned over you and cried for you. You didn't move, you didn't breathe, you didn't blink. You were dead."

He cast his eyes to the floor, not being able to meet her eyes. "When I saw you running towards me in the alley, with those two from Brooklyn running after you and I heard that gunshot-" He met her gaze. His eyes were glassy. "-I thought you were dead. I saw you fall and I thought you were dead. I saw you fall, and-" His words suddenly became choked. "-I felt my heart rip in two. I thought I had lost you."

He placed three fingers to the bridge of his nose and turned away from her, as he was defeated by his emotions.

"Oh, Flynn," she whispered softly, edging towards him and placing her arms about his neck. He collapsed against her, placing his head to her chest. She allowed her fingers to get lost in the tangles of his disheveled hair that was matted with sweat and grime.

"I thought he had killed you," she breathed in a low voice as she settled her back against the wall under the window, the image of two burning blue eyes invading her mind. "I thought Conlon had killed you for sure-"

At Angel's words, Flynn abruptly sat up and regarded her with wide, raw eyes that were rimmed in red. "You thought that who killed me?"

She looked at him incredulously. "Conlon. I said I thought Conlon had killed you for sure-"

Her words died on her lips at the disbelieving stare he was bestowing upon her. "Angel, where in the hell did you get Conlon from?"

Angel felt the world drop from below her. The mental picture of Conlon standing before her with the smoldering eyes and the pistol pointed downward blazed brilliantly in her mind. "He was in front of you! He had a gun pointed at you!"

Flynn had gained his composure and now sat beside her, his back to the wall. The sun that filtered in through the window bathed him in a golden glow. A new cigarette dangled between his lips as he struck a match against the floor, igniting it. "Angel, I wasn't shot from in front. I was shot from behind."

"Oh my Christ," she whispered breathlessly, not believing the words that she had heard her assassin-partner uttered. Flynn regarded her, a smirk upon his lips, as he waved the match quickly in the air, extinguishing the flame. He inhaled deeply on his cigarette.

"Haddox, what in the name of Christ is your deal? You're giving me this look as though someone had died.

Angel felt her blood run cold and her mouth immediately turn as dry as cotton. "Because, Flynn, someone might have. I shot at him, Flynn. I shot at Spot Conlon because I saw he had a gun lowered in your direction."

Flynn simply shrugged, exhaling, and wispy smoke curling around his head. "Who gives a shit? So you killed him. That's one less problem up your brother's ass, hence that's one less bullshit problem that we have to deal with. Who knows, maybe Oliver will spring for a parade in your honor. Besides, why do you care?"

Besides, why do you care? As she sat paralyzed by Flynn Finesse who lazily smoked a drag, she could not for the life of her comprehend why she was feeling so fantastically culpable over the attempted murder of a man who was her mortal enemy. It was not just guilt on behalf of her ever blossoming conscience, but it was something different, some bond that was infinitely more powerful-something that was in her soul-

Alas, her reverie was shattered before she could deduce the resolution, as a quick series of raps came to her door and Hal Halloran stuck his head into the room. His small eyes bulged and his chubby face was as red as a tomato and slicked with sweat.

"Can I come in, Flynn?" he asked warily.

Flynn absentmindedly nodded and Hal cautiously entered the room and approached Angel with the comical waddle that his weight had imposed on his gait over time. He stopped before her.

"Angel," he said through deep breaths, "I was just on my way to get something to eat when your brother stopped me. I told him you had finally woke up-I mean, Jesus Christ, it's been four days-and he told me he wanted to see you in the parlor right away."

She nodded, noncommittally, not actually hearing that words that Halloran was saying for she was too lost in her own thoughts of blue-eyed Brooklyn leaders and Lazarus-like assassin-partners.

"Oh," Hal added, as though an afterthought, "Oliver wanted me to give you this. He said he wanted to talk about it."

Angel's gaze had been trained on her legs (the one wounded by the bullet had been tightly bandaged) and she had not been paying attention to the overweight newsboy. It was only when he dropped the cold, metal object in her opened palm that reality came to her once more.

She glanced down at her hand and a stupendous wave of nausea washed over her that she had to use her entire will from retching her guts out right then and there. A key, a silver key that glittered like molten silver, was in her palm, the adjoining chain sprawled on the floorboards. It was his key; Spot Conlon's key; the key that she had unwittingly unclasped from his neck in a state of blissful fever.

She raised her eyes to seek out Halloran, but the door was already slowly closing behind him.

"Hey, what the hell have you go there?" Angel heard Flynn ask, but she did not respond, she could not respond. An icy, primordial terror had wrested control of her entire being. She felt herself shaking in unbridled horror in spite of herself.

Her fist closed over the key.

Oliver knew. Oliver knew everything.


	14. Chapter 12

CHAPTER TWELVE

The star-filled crushed velvet dusk sky on that particular smoldering, muggy June night would always stay with her for its sheer beauty, like some type of particular secret locked deep in the abysses of the soul. She would always remember how fantastically expansive and utterly deep in scope it seemed right then long after she no longer walked the earth, if at all possible.

She and Flynn had always skated away the hours of the night after an assassination drinking cheap gin and she thought perhaps she had been so out of her senses to appreciate the true unabashed beauty of His indigo canvas.

But tonight was a different tale. Tonight she was utterly sober and completely enamored of the sky. It was absolutely clear that night, and the bone-colored moon was full and so waxed that it looked as though she could pluck it out of the sky. It was absolutely breathtaking.

She would always remember that night for that afternoon was the afternoon that her life went to shambles.

Angel exhaled deeply. The wispy smoke curled around her head and evaporated into the night. She brought the cigarette to her lips and inhaled. It was almost down to the butt and the embers at the tip glowed a dim orange. She tapped it, allowing ashes to fall to the dirt and gravel littered around her.

She released a prolonged sigh and rested her head back on design of bricks that jutted out slightly from the rear of the warehouse. She stared at the haunting moon, wondering if perhaps there was a man on it after all. But then again, she thought listlessly, it's most likely all bullshit. All bullshit just like all the bullshit Oliver's given me every day of my pathetic life.

The silver key on the chain that she had draped around her neck caught a beam of moonlight and flashed violently for a moment. She heard distant voices from the façade of the warehouse, nonetheless the brute, gruff voices of a few boys from Oliver's legion of jackasses engaging in an intellectually stimulating conversation.

"I need to get me laid tonight, Thor, I just need to get myself laid tonight if it's the last thing I do. It's been almost a month."

"Lookin' at you, Bull, I'd say the last girl on earth wouldn't give it up for you. But there's always your mother, you know."

"Ooh, you think ya so fuckin funny, do ya, Thor? But you forget that my dear sweet mother is long dead in the grave."

"Well you know there are people who are into that kind of shit."

"What? You mean fuckin dead people?"

"Yup."

"Ya kiddin' me, right?"

"Nope."

"That's pretty fucked up."

"Damn straight. Now give me a hit of your cigarette. You can't have it all."

"Here. Hey, Thor, what's all this I've been hearing about Oliver nearly shooting his bitch sister dead? I was at The Hideaway havin' a few drinks when it all happened but when I got back everyone was talkin' about it. So what gives?"

"Beats me. But I saw Haddox-the bitch, that is-walking to Oliver's room. Limpin' too, you know? Got shot in the let most rightly by those Brooklyn sons of bitches. Only thing their good for. Anyhow, I sees her and starts givin' her grief about wakin' up and all 'cause you know we had that poll goin' of how long she was gonna stay conked out-"

"Yeah. Gussy won the sucker, right? Said four days?"

"I said forever."

"I would have been with you on that one. I wouldn't mind that bitch bein' dead. Tried to get some once, but the bitch pulled that revolver-"

"You gonna let me finish sometime this year, Bull?"

"Yeah, sorry. Go on, Thor."

"So as I was sayin' before I was so rudely interrupted, the bitch comes down the hall towards Oliver's room, and she looks all scared. She tells me in not so pretty words to fuck off to Jersey and then she goes to Oliver's room. I don't hear nothin' for at least ten minutes and then I hear all the yellin', see. Can't tell what the hell they're screaming about, but then I hear the gunshot and I run into the hallway with a couple of the other guys. The door opens again and the bitch comes out and slams it behind her just as there's another gunshot. Then she starts runnin', or limpin' with that goddamned funny walk down the hall and Oliver sticks his head out the door. He's all white and his eyes are all wild and he's waving his gun, screaming in a really high voice crazy shit like, 'Do you hear me, Angel? Do you hear me! Don't you dare come back! Don't you dare show your fuckin face here ever again unless you have him! Don't even fuckin think about it if you don't have him!'"

"D'you know what it meant?"

"Fuck if I know what the hell it meant. But he shot at the bitch again and she ran upstairs to that pansy Finesse. Hasn't been seen since the afternoon. Last time Halloran went to check on Finesse, Finesse told him that he hadn't seen her all afternoon. What a crock. Oliver told her to go get someone, and she left. He was royally pissed off about it. Hey, look who it is! Bones finally decides to grace us with his presence. Where the fuck you been, Bones? Me and Bull have been waitin' for ages and Bull's itchin' to get laid."

"Watch me cry a river here, Thor. I was caught up in all that shit back at the warehouse about the bitch gone missing. But let's go. I want to go to The Hideaway and get me a knockout whore. The best Bull can do is his sister."

"Or his dead mother."

"Fuck you guys. Let's go."

The three voices soon dimmed; blotted out in the night, as their moronic owners traded colorful insults as they headed to The Hideaway in hopes of getting the chronically celibate Bull laid that night.

Angel was once again left with a silence that was all but peaceful. It was as though the constant stream of relentless thoughts that bombarded her mind were as loud as a freight train.

She sighed deeply, mournfully, and inhaled on the cigarette. She recited Thor's crude narrative in her mind once more. She nearly laughed in spite of herself. Despite a few key details that were illusive to them, her apocalyptic quarrel with her brother was well known amongst the minions. It was as though they were old wives in some type of knitting group; where they sat round in a circle and circulated gossip.

She had to give the obtuse void that was Thor Whatever-the-hell-his-surname- was credit, though. His ending words on the topic stayed with her like spirits at a haunt.

Oliver told her to go get someone, and she left. He was royally pissed off about it.

From what she had garnered, most of Oliver's boys took it with a grain of salt that brother and sister had had a scuffle and he had finally (and thankfully) kicked her to the curb because she was falling back on her position of assassin. It was speculated that the little ass-kisser Night might get the job, but then again Oliver might just possibly be apt to knock for Tristan Dark, a former Bronxie who now resided Brooklyn under Conlon, who was the best kept secret of gunslingers in all of New York.

But Thor. He, perhaps unwittingly, possessed the knowledge that Oliver had dismissed Angel from his Midtown with a scream and a shot of a gun to go on the prowl of a victim. But it was the magnitude of the victim that he did not know. The victim was unbeknownst to anyone on the face of the planet besides the children of the deceased Henry and Julia Haddox. Oliver's little boys would sure have one hell of a field day when she showed up with him. It would be like all the hazy frenzy of a witch burning, substituting the heretic for a comely, blue-eyed Brooklyn leader, of course.

He's going to get us all killed in the end. The words came back to her, haunting her, as she inhaled lazily on the cigarette and regarded the waxing moon. Oliver Haddox is going to get all of us killed in the end, she thought bitterly. Just as long as it's not him, he doesn't care. He doesn't care. But don't you remember, Hel? Don't you remember? There's still time to save your immortal soul from going to Old Scratch down below. Just take the advice of a drunken leader who spits out prophecies like an oracle.

The drunken leader who you have to kill, she added ruefully. But when you kill him, it will be no less different than suicide. You'll be killing yourself if you kill him-

A dull scuffling against the gravel in the alley in back of the warehouse distracted her, shattering her reverie. She immediately lifted her head, her grip involuntarily around the key round her neck and the cigarette dangling from her lower lip, smoldering. Flynn Finesse's cat-like green eyes gazed back at her, hidden partially by stray strands of bright hair the moon tainted silver that fell out of the short queue. He wore a crinkled, white collar-shirt that was unbuttoned, exposing the bloodied bandaged that covered his lower shoulder. He stood silently in front of her for a moment, and she dropped her eyes away from his so that she stared at his russet-colored slacks. She inhaled and she heard him issue a slight grunt as her collapsed into a sitting position beside her, his back against the exterior wall of the warehouse also.

They sat in a peaceful silence for a few minutes, a silence that only true friends could appreciate, before Flynn spoke. His voice was low and gentle.

"Mind if I take a drag?"

With no qualms and no words, Angel parted her lips and removed the cigarette, handing it to Flynn without glancing his way. The moon glowed brighter. Angel sighed.

"How'd you find me?"

She turned to Flynn to find he had his head cocked back against the wall and was creating immaculate smoke circles. His eyes flickered to hers and he smiled. "It wasn't too hard, Angel. From all that I've heard this afternoon, it was the only place I could think of. Behind the warehouse. The last place they'd ever think to look for you."

"I wasn't interested in Oliver finding me again. In fact, he told me never to come back in so many words. I was more interested in Tristan Dark being able to find me."

The smoke rings abruptly halted and she could feel those emerald eyes burning ferociously into the side of her head, the eyes she so dearly tried to avoid. His voice was laced with rage. She knew of his history with Dark. "Angel, what the hell are you doing with Tristan Dark? You know he's a no- good fucking slippery son of a bitch! Don't you know he's with Brooklyn?"

Angel cast her eyes from the bright moon to her hands that sat on her lap, doused in shadows. "I know," she murmured, studying them. "I know. Don't you think I know of his reputation? But I had no other choice. Besides, his being with Brooklyn now is a plus this time."

"Angel, what the hell are you doing with Tristan Dark and what the hell are you doing with Brooklyn? Angel, look at me. Haddox, just what in the name of Christ happened in that room with your brother today? You wouldn't believe all the shit that stupid son of a whore Thor has been passing around. What happened? Is it an assassination?"

Angel turned suddenly on Flynn, her dark gray eyes glittering as vehemently as the key she bore around her neck. "Yeah, Flynn, I guess you could call it an assassination. In so many words it's an assassination. And I guess you call it a pretty fucking big assassination at that." She elicited an exhausted sigh and slammed her head angrily back against the warehouse. Her voice was low. "He wants me to knock off Conlon."

The stark silence that fell between them was obscene. It seemed epochs before Flynn finally collected himself, whispering in a disbelieving voice, "He what?"

She raised her utterly disgusted gaze to the bright moon, the bright moon that seemed to be laughing wildly at her, mocking her. Mocking the brilliant anger that had suddenly over taken her, mocking the inexplicable pain she felt within the abysses of her soul as she spoke the words. "Conlon. He wants me to knock-off Conlon. He doesn't want him assassinated. He wants him executed. Wants me to get him from Brooklyn to Midtown and then at sundown make a big fucking spectacle of it. He wants him, wants him in front of every last goddamned Midtown newsie, and then he wants me to blow his brains out. Me. Even in the end he still can't do it."

Even Flynn, Flynn Finesse, a most seasoned assassin that took his profession of slaying the innocent with a grain of salt, could only elicit a shock-strangled whistle. "Why did he tell you to do it now? After all these years of having the rift and doing nothing, why now? Was it you getting shot?"

Angel released an indifferent laugh as she brought her knees to her chin. The moon glowed brighter in the velvet sky. She had a sudden, passionate desire to be on that bone-colored moon, away from the atrocity that had become her life. She sighed mournfully. "Me getting shot? No, it wasn't me getting shot. You know Oliver doesn't care what happens to me. He only cares what happens to his allies that are with him in burning Brooklyn to the ground. It was when we were walking to Gulliver's Inn; Lyner approached me and cornered me into telling him that what I saw at the Brooklyn Lodging House was a lie-"

"You lied to Oliver?" Flynn interjected, inhaling on the cigarette between his lips. The glowing embers burnt brilliantly against the backdrop of the nighttime shadows.

She regarded him with a cocked brow. "Yes I lied to my brother. Tell me you actually didn't believe that bullshit story of Night getting mugged?"

He shrugged, an impish grin playing at the corner of his lips. "It was pretty damned wonderful to hear that Night had been mugged." The smile and sparkle in his eyes soon dimmed. "What were you trying to cover then, Angel?"

Angel was obligated to look away from her assassin-partner for the mental pictures of she and Conlon lustily making it in that darkened room were suddenly emblazoned in her mind. Her blood burned as a warmth ran through her entire body. She could only be grateful for the darkness so that Flynn could not discern what shade of scarlet her flesh had turned. It was not the initial time she had lied to him. "I can't tell you, Flynn," she said at last, knowing how utterly obtuse the reply sounded as it came from her lips. "Just like I couldn't tell Rylie Lyner. Actually, I never outright told Lyner that the mugger story was a crock. He just inferred it and started blackmailing me. Saying shit like if I just told him that I had lied, nothing about what I had seen though, then he wouldn't go to Oliver and tell him that I had lied. All Lyner really wanted was for me to come to Queens under the title of 'assassin' so that he could nail me whenever he pleased. He was trying to bribe me, saying that if I didn't tell him he would go to Oliver and tell him I lied and that Oliver would believe him over me. Of course, I spit in his no good fucking face and anyone with half a brain could tell I was lying so I guess-"

"-he went to Oliver. He went to Oliver and told your brother that you had lied to him. Am I right?" Flynn interrupted somberly. The flawless smoke rings he blew wafted into the dark, muggy night sky before disappearing. Angel nodded absentmindedly, observing them intently.

"In so many words. I guess Lyner was just so angry that I spit in his face that he went to Oliver. Of course Oliver is absolutely head over heels in love with Lyner so he believed everything the son of a bitch said and he called me to his room-"

"But why does he want you do commit certain-suicide by waltzing to Brooklyn and knocking-off Conlon?" Flynn sharply turned his gaze on her. His voice was cold and frigid as winter's first frost. It chilled her.

"It-it was what I said," she confessed, having to look away from those fantastically intense eyes. It was at though she were in confession and spilling forth all of the dirtiest and most corrupt of her sins to a priest. "My brother made me extremely angry. My patience was very short at the time-I had just woken up, was getting over the fact that you were actually alive, and my leg hurt like a bitch-and as soon as I entered his room he started screaming that I had lied to him. He was rambling on like some backward preacher with all the normal bullshit; that he had saved me from the monsters that were our parents and still I am a dirty and dishonest little bitch to him. That I show him no respect for what he did- saving my life from a life of misery, if you'd believe that. That he had given me everything and still I lied to him. I asked him what the hell I had lied about, and he said about what had happened at the Brooklyn Lodging House. I asked him who told him differently and he said Rylie. Jesus Christ, Flynn. You wouldn't believe the little number I did on Rylie Lyner's name. I must have said every unholy thing that there is in the book. Oliver went totally crazy over what I said about Lyner and then he asked if I hadn't lied then where the hell I got the key from-"

"What key, Angel?" His voice was flat, hard, lifeless.

Angel immediately halted mid-word to regard Flynn. His handsome visage was cool and indifferent under the moon, yet his emerald eyes blazed with an intrinsic inferno.

The key. The key. The goddamned key. Realization soon dawned upon her as to how utterly devastating stating that piece of information had been. Her jaw soon fell, lax, and she feverishly scanned her assassin-partner's eyes as she stumbled for the golden words. "Key. Oh, key. Conlon's key. I found it whenever Brooklyn came into Midtown."

"Is that the key you're wearing around your neck?"

She quickly glanced down to espy the accursed key hanging round her neck, glittering like molten silver in the moonlight. "As a matter of fact it is. I kept it as a reminder that Midtown will be victorious over Brooklyn come hell or high water. Stop looking at me like that, Flynn."

"How am I looking at you?"

"Like he gave me the fucking key himself. Oliver asked me if no one had been at the Brooklyn Lodging House the afternoon of the war-council then how the hell I got the key. This, I must say, is where I was partially responsible for the order of execution Oliver issued against Conlon. I was absolutely infuriated at my brother, like you couldn't believe, Flynn, and I decided to be a smart ass. So when he asked me how I got the key I told him that I had lied." She halted suddenly and drew in a deep breath. "I told him I lied that Conlon had been at the lodging house that afternoon and I had known that because I had fucked him. I screamed this to Oliver at the top of my lungs-that I had fucked him and that's how I got the key- just to see the reaction it got. And Christ did I get a reaction."

She elicited a sigh and collapsed against the wall, gazing longingly at the swollen, bright moon and unwittingly fingering the key. "He went absolutely insane. Of course I knew that I didn't actually fuck Conlon, but just hearing it come from the mouth of his precious assassin was enough to do him over. He just drew his pistol and pointed it at me. He said he wanted Conlon. He said he wanted Conlon alive. Alive so that I could execute him in front of all of Midtown. I was screaming at him as he said this, I can't actually remember what I said. I think I said I fucked Conlon good and hard and this just made him angrier. He said I wasn't to come back to Midtown unless I had Conlon. That we were finished if I didn't have him-But I do believe I heard Thor sum it up just wonderfully, 'Do you hear me, Angel? Do you hear me! Don't you dare come back! Don't you dare show your fucking face here ever again unless you have him! Don't even fucking think about it if you don't have him!' And the big finale was him shooting off a few rounds at me. The shots got his door, actually. I slammed it behind me."

Her voice trailed off into a sigh, a sigh that was lost in the brilliant night. A notion once more came to her, unabashed and blinding, as she sat regarding the moon and rubbing the key. But when you kill him, it will be no less different than suicide. You'll be killing yourself if you kill him. It was a thought that she could not comprehend for the life of her, yet for an inexplicable reason she just took it without any qualms for being true.

Flynn finally spoke. His voice was low and drenched in bitterness and acerbity. "So where the hell does Tristan Dark come into this. Christ, Angel, I thought I always told you to stay away from him."

She gazed softly at Flynn who was staring indignantly into the moon. She read his handsome profile; read the eyes that had been narrowed into slits; read the jaw that was clenched inhumanly tight. It was simplistic to deduce that the emotions were brought upon by Dark, emotions of the utmost hatred. She had heard the tale plenty of times. Before becoming contracted by Midtown, Flynn, along with Dark had been two of the best ad hoc assassins this side of New York. The two met one day at a party thrown by a mutual employer and despite better judgment went into business together. Dark had done something wicked to Flynn soon after for the latter to hate the former with a raging passion. They had soon parted ways, though Angel could not recall for the life of her what the deed had been.

"I know things, Flynn," she said, her inflection utterly void of any type of emotion. "I know Conlon has a liking for a whore named Breathless. I took my chances this afternoon meeting with Dominiquette at The Hideaway this afternoon. You know, Oliver's all-time favorite fuck. I had a plan, the only plan I could think of, and turns out she can help me. So Conlon's laid-up in his room I heard because of me shooting him. I know he and Breathless had an encounter that they never quite got to finish. Dominiquette made me over quite wonderfully whenever we went to Brooklyn to knock those two newsies off during the poker party. Turns out she can make me look like Breathless. And she also knows Tristan Dark. Turns out he's a seedy assassin with no loyalties, but he just so happens to be living in the Brooklyn Lodging House right now. For a small fee to him, I get Dark to act as though I'm Breathless and he's bringing me to Conlon. It will be night when I go and I'll work my magic and I'll just have to pray that I won't get killed."

As she spoke it, she knew the entire stratagem sounded like an utterly ludicrous suicide mission. Her assassin-partner's words only reinforced the sensations of thorough dread and terror.

"It's a death wish, Angel. You know you can't trust Dark as far as you can spit."

She felt his warm hand slip into hers. The gesture seemed so intimate, yet so completely comforting, that she turned to him, her eyes wide. Flynn's gaze was not on her. It was on the moon. He was smiling, a quiet smile at the brilliant, waxing orb. Pale silver beams played across his features, mixing with the shadows, and for a moment she was sure she was regarding an utterly different Flynn Finesse.

He spoke, his eyes still to the heavens yet his words to her. "I remember, Haddox, when you asked me if you had a conscience. I remember when you argued with Night about the sanctity of our victims. I remember when your eyes lit up like diamonds when I told you that you were going to get out of here, make something of yourself. I remember when you argued with me about the morality of being an assassin. I remember when you told me Oliver was going to get us all killed in the end. I remember when you paused shooting that one newsie down by the docks during the poker game. I remember when you desperately asked me to pray with you all night. I remember the first time I saw you cry last week and I've seen you cry many times since then. I remember holding you after you passed out because you had cried yourself into exhaustion, and thinking, I don't even know your name.

"And I think now, Angel, that I know you must be holding onto your true name inside with a passion. And I wonder why don't you just take all that passion and leave. Why don't you just leave? I've seen you do things this past week that I would have never deemed possible of you before. And I see that you're not your brother and you weren't meant to be his assassin. I know that you want to leave Angel, but I see you still here and still doing these same stupid fucking suicide tasks for him and you know that if you don't stop you're going to die. I see it inside you so badly, and I wonder why you don't leave. Most days my wish is that when I knock on your door after an assassination to go to The Hideaway for lunch I find your room empty and you gone. Your revolver's still there, but your gone. You're gone to a place where you'll never have to think of Oliver Haddox or Midtown ever again. But then I come in and you're still there and you're still doing your brother's bidding. And each time you do what Oliver tells you to its like making your own death wish. And I can't see you die, Haddox; I won't see you die because I don't have nothing on this earth but you. And if you die then what does a second-rate illiterate assassin have? Nothing. Abso-fuckin-lutely nothing."

Flynn Finesse, a self-proclaimed second-rate illiterate assassin aged eighteen, said that to the moon on a whim. Angel regarded him in utter bewilderment for a moment, trying to reckon that such puissant, literatim poetry had spilled forth from his lips as to utterly bind her heart and cause it to shatter so brutally. Yet Flynn only sat against the back of the Midtown warehouse beside her, one leg bent and the other straight in front of him, his unbutton shirt tugged so his wounded chest was visible, and awry strands of bright hair fallen over his brow and into his eyes that had come loose from the queue. And he looked at the moon with those unbelievable green cat-eyes, smiling at the bone-white orb, as Angel's entire heart and soul were ripped to shreds.

And a fragment of a dream came to her, a dream that she had had while in the dark work of unconsciousness. Flynn had been intended to be her first victim. He had stolen her chastity away and no man since then had, for after him, she refused to seduce a man just to assassinate him. She hadn't been able to assassinate him because he had been so beautiful, so beautiful just as he appeared now in the moonlight. He had asked her why she had been crying.

"I never told you, did I?" he inquired softly, breaking her reverie so that her blurry gaze fell upon him. He still stared at the moon, though his smile had vanished. "Four years ago I was working for Rylie Lyner. Four years ago he heard of a new leader called Oliver Haddox and his sister. Four years ago he got worried that his power might be unbalanced and he sent me to assassinate both brother and sister. Four years ago I met you at the Devil's Head Tavern where you seduced me and I'll be damned if you didn't try to shoot me. That day I was just at the Devil's Head to get a cold one before I went to Midtown to kill Oliver and Angel Haddox. Christ, isn't it a kicker that you were sent to kill me? And if I wouldn't have slept with you then I would have killed you? I still think it's one of those crazy type stories that you tell to a crowd at a party when you're all drunk." He turned to her, those green eyes burning into her soul. "Why didn't you kill me, Angel?"

Angel was utterly flabbergasted for a moment; flabbergasted at the utter incredulity of Flynn's words. She could only smile grimly as her back fell against his arm. "Because I couldn't. Because you were my first, both ways I mean, and you know I wasn't meant to be Oliver's fucking assassin. Because I was scared and innocent then. And now, now my life is just a complete fucking train wreck. I would have done myself in long ago if it hadn't been for you, Finesse." Her hand easily slipped into his and tilted her head to his shoulder as her gaze drifted slowly to the diamond-covered velvet night sky. "Though I still don't know why I go on."

Because there's still time to save your soul. The accursed words once more invaded her mind, relentless. And because if you do stick your revolver in your mouth and pull the trigger you'll end up in The Wood of Suicides in the Seventh Circle of Hell and shall be turned into a tangled shrub that shall howl in pain and weep blood when torn at by the Harpies.

She shook her head, closed her eyes and opened them. Flynn's shoulder shifted under her head and her tangled hair was pressed against her neck, feeling slovenly and sweaty. She wouldn't kill herself because she could not (Because I can see it I can see it in your eyes I saw it in your eyes today I saw fear in your eyes you're not one of them you want more but your scared shitless scared shitless you want to die in this life you created for yourself you don't know who the hell you've become but you don't die because you think somehow you can always go back to the past that the future will be brighter) because the bottom line was that she was too utterly terrified to pull the trigger. She was nothing but a spectacular atrocity inside (you want to die in this life you created because you don't know who the hell you've become) and truly did not care if she were to be killed as she went to Brooklyn to somehow seduce their leader and bestow him to Oliver.

She was more concerned at the moment for the own life of Spot Conlon, a man who by Oliver's book her mortal enemy, than she was for her own.

You have it backwards. I don't give a damn if I die, yet you do. His words haunted her, as his eyes haunted her, as he haunted her. She released a soft cry and sat up, pressing her eyes shut and bringing her fingers to the bridge of her nose. She felt Flynn shift under her as he brought a hand to her shoulder. "Angel, is something the matter?"

She turned to him, her eyes glassy with unshed tears. "I can't do this, Flynn. I can't do this."

Her assassin-partner only smiled. "Then don't. Don't ever listen to Oliver Haddox again. Get up and leave Midtown forever and be free, Angel. Leave the Angel of Death right here with me and go and leave. Why don't you just go and leave? What's holding you back?"

Oh, how fantastically easy Flynn Finesse's words sounded. Though leaving Midtown was akin to committing suicide. They were both the effortless routes out and yet she could do neither. Her soul-her soul-When she had kissed him, something had been transferred to her; his overpowering emotions and raw passion and want and desperation. And now something was inside her-part of Spot Conlon was inside her as utterly mad that may seem-

Her thoughts ruptured as she heard the faint crunch of gravel in the alley that ran behind the warehouse. It was an unexpected, intrusive noise for she and Flynn had lapsed into an almost pious silence. She raised her to find a tall, lanky shadow approaching in slow, lazy strides.

Angel immediately sat upright and brushed away the unshed tears that lingered with her fingers, composing herself. The crunch of the gravel under the figure's boots incremented and soon the silhouette stood before she and Flynn. She knew who it was immediately. Tristan Dark. Out of her peripheral vision, she saw Flynn go rigid. She knew that he had not intended on meeting Dark ever again lest in Midtown.

"Are you Angel Haddox?" Tristan Dark inquired with a slight drawl.

Angel slowly nodded. "Yes."

"I was contacted through Dominiquette. You need me to take you to Brooklyn, is that correct?" Dark asked, in a straightforward, business-like voice.

"Yes, I-" she started, yet Dark cut her off quickly.

"I don't need to know what your business is, as long as I get my money. You pay up front, I don't do none of this 'afterwards' bullshit 'cause I've got stiffed a lot. If you don't need me to do no assassinations, then I need the flat fee of five bucks to deliver you to Brooklyn."

Angel nodded. "I got the money." She had heisted the cash off of Oliver some time ago.

"Good," Dark's shadowy figure nodded. "Then let's go. You can tell me the scenario on the way there."

Angel nodded once more in compliance and slowly began to rise to her feet, when she felt Flynn's hot hand find hers, bringing her down again. Her gaze met his burning emerald one. She then felt him emancipate her hand from his, and move it to her cheek where it quickly warmed her flesh. She then saw him fiercely bring his face to hers and felt him passionately press his lips to hers. Instead of being overcome with a sensation of lust, she felt a terrific burst of white, pristine clarity for the first time in her entire life.

And as quickly as it had begun the kiss was over; Flynn pulled away and removed his hand from her cheek. She opened her eyes to find that emerald gaze regarding her intently. Even in the darkness, his flesh was pale and his eyes read her face. His voice was hoarse, low.

"Angel, you don't have to do this, you know you don't. But I know you are. Even though you despise your brother I know you are going to do this. You know how goddamned dangerous is and you know you might die but you're still going to do this. But before you go I have to tell you something. Angel I- "

"Ah, am I interrupting anything?" Tristan Dark asked from over her shoulder, where he had been witness to the act.

Angel witnessed Flynn's visage blanch to a cadaverous ashen hue save for the two patches of bright scarlet on his cheeks. His smoldering eyes turned towards Dark. "As a matter of fact you are interrupting something, you betraying son of a bitch," he growled in a malevolent tone.

A smirk alighted upon Dark's lips as he stepped back, as though trying to deduce who had said the scalding words. "Hey, who is that?" he asked, his voice dripping with amusement. "Is that-no! It can't be. Is that you, Finesse?"

Flynn began to rise slowly to his feet, and Angel tried to futilely to pull him down again, yet he only simply shook her hand roughly off. He was bathed in a ray of moonlight. "Yeah, Dark, it's me. But you most likely thought that Lyner had had me killed, didn't you?"

Dark's chilling laugh sliced through the muggy summer night. "Finesse, well I'll be damned! You in Midtown, I never would have thought." He regarded the bloodied bandage on Flynn's chest. "Guess you'll be on the unemployment list for sometime and that's why you're sending the broad to do all your work? Anyway, I ain't got time for all this bullshit." He turned to Angel. "Are you ready? Brooklyn's quite a walk."

"I'm ready," Angel breathed rapidly, rising beside Flynn. Dark nodded in her direction and, lighting up a fresh cigarette, began striding took the direction out from behind the warehouse opposite that of The Hideaway. She watched him for a few moments before she turned to Flynn. His eyes were locked malevolently upon Dark. His faced was flushed, hair falling in his eyes, and chest rising laboriously. Angel softly placed her hand within his.

The gesture seemed to startle him and he turned quickly to Angel, locking gazes with her. "Angel, I-" he began, yet she interjected suddenly.

"Flynn, I know that you and Dark had issues that date back God knows how long ago, but he's the only means I got. I know that it's a bona-fid death wish to walk into Brooklyn and somehow get Conlon to Midtown, but I have to do it. You asked what's holding me back and I'll tell you. It's you, Flynn, you're holding me back and I'm holding myself back. You're the only thing that I've come to care about all the time I've been in Midtown and I can't think of not ever seeing you again. Fuck everyone else. I could leave and then Oliver would just make you do the job and I can't do that to you Flynn, I just can't because you're the only person I-"

The words became difficult as her words became strangled with tears. She felt the fingers of one of Flynn's hands tangle within her hair as he drew his mouth close to her ear. His hot breath played in her ear canal and she shut her eyes. He spoke, in a low, gentle voice.

"I cry for him, for our love, and for the war. Whoever said all is fair in love and war, has never experienced love and war, for love and war are never fair."

She choked back a sob at his words and closed her eyes as she felt his hands move to her cheeks and the bridge of his nose touch hers. His hot breath blew across her face. "Don't come back, Angel, for Christ's sake don't come back."

Angel opened her eyes to find those marvelous green eyes staring intently back at her. She released a soft sigh as she brought her fingers across his brow, sweeping the strands of hair that had fallen from the queue back. She knew they were pleading with her. Pleading for her life.

"For the love of Sonny Jesus, are ya gonna make me wait all day for you to fuck my old buddy here or what, Miz Haddox?" Tristan Dark's audible drawl was an incommodious interruption and the moment faded into oblivion. She felt Flynn begin to lunge, yet she held him firmly back. "Don't, Flynn, please," she whispered. "Let it go."

Her hand brushing slightly against his, she turned and joined the tall, darkened silhouette of Tristan Dark garbed on overcoat and derby cap. They began to walk out of the alley, out from behind the warehouse. She did not, could not, glance back at Flynn.

She never forgot the words that Flynn Finesse said to her on that night, just as she never forgot the star-filled indigo sky itself. As eloquent as he spoke at intervals, she knew that he would never be able to recite prose to her like that on the spot.

It had been a message. It had been a sign. Perhaps from God who was perhaps was telling her that there was time to save her soul.

What she felt in that ethereal kiss with Flynn was what it would be like to be Helena Haddox again. After she had saved her soul.

Alas, as Angel walked towards Brooklyn while the night grew deeper with an assassin who pledge allegiance to no one but his currency, she felt the first true fear for her immortal soul. For she knew she could never be saved if she were to deliver Spot Conlon to her brother, though the reason escaped her. The key wore heavy round her neck and her blood raced with an internal fire.

Killing him, as much as she dare not think of the notion, would be like committing suicide.

Because I can see it. I can see it in your eyes. I saw it in your eyes today. I saw fear in your eyes. You're not one of them. You want more. But your scared shitless. Scared shitless. You want to die in this life you created for yourself, you don't know who the hell you've become. But you don't die because you think somehow you can always go back to the past, that the future will be brighter.

He had read her so immaculately. Had known all that she thought so flawlessly for the notion was not so incredulous: she and Conlon were alike. They shared a powerful reputation under a false appellation, their true name kept close to their hearts, unwilling to show their true nature. They had both created a façade, a façade that appeared crack-proof and faultless from an onlooker's perspective. They both were creatures of fear and blood, polar opposites in their allegiances.

He had read her soul and now she was to execute him for her brother, his corporeal foe.

I cry for him, for our love, and for the war. Who ever said all is fair in love and war, has never experienced love and war, for love and war are never fair.

At that moment she would have heeded Flynn and would have left everything behind. Though simply stealing onto the box of a freight train with myriad other tramps, unseen, to be taken to a region of America that had never before heard of the appellations of Oliver Haddox, Flynn Finesse, Nero Night, Tristan Dark, or Spot Conlon would not be enough. Suicide would be the only unadulterated method in ending her suffering in the world. Damn all what would occur to her in the fiery, smoldering reaches of Hell. Damn her eternal soul. Committing suicide would be the only means possible of ending it all.

It began to rain. The muggy night air was lacerated as cool zephyrs began to pick up and slowly breeze about. The once clear heavens clouded over in to a stormy black haze, obstructing the stars and blurring the moon. The rain commenced as a mere drizzle, but soon was pouring down with a vengeance.

Yes, suicide was the only method. If she were to only of known that in a mere few hours she would be standing as Breathless in a raging downpour on the Brooklyn Bridge, Spot Conlon's pistol in her mouth and her revolver at his temple as they both attempted to end their lives with one pull of the trigger.

Alas, the deities were not so generous in disclosing knowledge and Angel made her way through Midtown and through the gathering storm to the bordello on the outskirts of Brooklyn where Dominiquette the harlot waited for them in her lavish room that smelt of intoxicating lavender.


	15. Chapter 13

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The faint whispers of pale gold sunlight able to filter in through the rotted planks of wood caught the sequins of the dress, causing them to shine like burnished gold. The wearer of the garment stretched out on the rotten mattress with cat-like grace, turning the rosary over in her hands, viewing it with an afar curiosity.

She had never truly belonged to any religion, ever. She merely fancied that her parents had been concerned with far greater things-such as having food on the table each night-than so instill the notions of God and His ways into their children's heads.

Angel wound the beaded rosary about her index fingers, a sad, melancholy smirk adorning her lips. Perhaps if Julia and Anthony Haddox had made the proper introductions to Jesus and Hel and Ollie before hand, then they would still be alive.

A sharp, abrupt series of raps to her door shattered her train of thought, and she slowly raised her head to view the shuttering plank of wood across the room. She sequentially ignored it, choosing instead to focus on the intricate delicacy of the rosary.

I wonder where it originated from, she asked herself. After a brief intermittence, the raps began once more, this time accompanied by the brisk, oleaginous voice of Nero Night.

"Hey, Haddox, open up in there. I ain't got all day long. Oliver wants you to go check in on our little prisoner."

Fuck you, Night, she thought lightly. Don't you mean your little prisoner?

There came an impatient settling of weight from outside her door, followed by a deafening ringing out of knocks. "Come on, Haddox, I know you're in there so don't fuck around with me. I ain't got all day, you know, so hurry the fuck up!"

Angel was apt to ignore Night once more, yet the infernal raps continued with such a vengeance that she forced herself, with great reluctance nonetheless, to rise to her feet. She shot a lethal gaze towards the door, her blood burning. Yet she limited herself to murmuring blue obscenities under her breath at the damned Italian, as with a careless motion, she shrugged off the straps of the gold sequined dress of the prior night. The glittering garment fell to her feet in a careless pile, revealing a totally bare, womanly body warmed and colored golden in the breathless sun that filtered in through the window. She stepped out of it, Night's audible knocks filling her ears, and elicited an exhausted sigh, flipping her tangles of flaxen hair over her shoulders, and padded barefoot over to her singular warped bureau.

She opened a random drawer and began blindly rummaging through it, allowing her gaze to wander out the window and to the mid-summer bathed Midtown that loomed before her. Her pupils constricted harshly in the bright sunshine.

"Come on, Angel!" Night breathed impatiently from outside the door. "What the hell are ya doing? I ain't got all mother fu-"

She respectfully drowned out his voice as her hand finally grasped around the black velvet ribbon. Plucking it up and banging the drawer shut with a swish of the hip, she gathered her shimmering hair atop her pate and messily secured it with the ribbon. She then drew her eyes away from the scene outside of the switch fight and the one wire-thin boy bleeding profusely, to fall to her haunches and quickly retrieve a pair of trousers ripped down the side and thick with grime and dried blood. She aimlessly pulled them on, leaving the suspenders lax at her side. Her gaze was once more directed towards the scene outside.

She recognized the group of oafish, heavily muscled group of Midtowners as Thor, Bull, and Bones something-or-other that had surrounded a minuscule boy less than half of their age. She realized the obese form of Hal Halloran that had stepped in to fend for the child. The three larger ones had drawn their switchblades on him and had him backed against the façade of a vacant building. Even from the distance, she could smell the fear and see the dark stain of urine that had formed on his trousers.

As she watched, she lazily pulled on a sullied white collared shirt and buttoned it three quarters of the way up, fastening the wrong buttons to the wrong holders.

Halloran was trembling. The switch blades were glimmering in the sun. Night was pounding on the door. Angel silently cocked a brow and walked the few paces to her mattress, scooping up the glittering ebony revolver in her grasp. She returned to the window and nimbly unlatched it, raising it and opening it so that the hot summer air hit her like a blast of foul smelling breath. Closing on eye tightly, she aligned the revolver with the middle one's head. Bull. She cocked the trigger.

I would have been with you on that one. I wouldn't mind that bitch bein' dead. Tried to get some once, but the bitch pulled that revolver-

Alas, a second notion crept into the back of her brain, and she begrudgingly inched the revolver to the left more, missing the son of a bitch's skull. Thor had the side of his switch's blade pressed against Halloran's thick neck. Angel pulled the trigger without thinking twice. The noise was deafening, the shot ringing out in the hot, summer-squelched world. The offending three instinctively ducked, Thor releasing Halloran momentarily, giving him just enough leeway to sidle away, terror etched into his face, before he broke into a full-fledge run in the direction of the Hideaway.

Angel shut the window with a hearty slam, silencing the hulking trio's obscene curses that would make any mother roll-over in her grave. She padded over to her mattress once more, sliding her feet into her battered shoes without reason to unlace them and carefully placed the revolver into the tattered pants waistband. She then made way to the door that shuddered under Night's weight and curses, disheveled, shirt only partially tucked, and not giving a damn.

She opened it with an abrupt gesture, catching Night poised with his glittering dagger poised over his head and ready to be driven into the door. His curly ebony hair was thoroughly greased and slicked back from his brow. His tanned skin was slicked with perspiration and his round, plump face was as red as a rose in full bloom. The sleeves of his dark blue shirt were rolled up to the elbow and dampened with sweat. His chest rising and falling with labored breathing, his small mouth fell open at the sight of her sudden appearance.

Angel crossed her arms across her chest and regarded him with unabashed scorn, her lips curling into a dark sneer. "Is it not enough that that you're going to kill Conlon, but you had to come after me also, Night?"

Night lowered his weapon, his breathing leveling out. Perspiration liberally sliding down his visage as though his flesh was weeping, his mask of shock was soon replaced by the usual insolent sneer that haunted his features. "Awh, Angel baby, if you're asking, I'm willing. But don't forget, peach, that it's you that Oliver's giving the honors to."

Angel's countenance suddenly darkened, her face contorting into disgusted rage. "Oliver's only giving me the honors, you stupid, fat, greasy, boy kissing fuck, because he's too much of a fucking pansy to do it himself. And so are you."

She pushed forcefully past him, slamming her door with such a passion behind her that the rotted plank quivered on its hinges. She had only gotten but a few paces, white hot rage radiating off her like the Hell fires, when she felt her back being stalwartly slammed into the wall of the corridor. Night. He had cunningly pressed his sweaty chest to hers, pinning her against the wall. One of his thick knees was positioned quite uncomfortably between her legs. His left hand was positioned so tightly about her neck that he was on the verge of asphyxiating her. He unthinkingly drew his glistening dagger and positioned it vertically down the bridge of her nose, the blade glittering as furiously as his dark eyes.

"I told you last night, you goddamned Midtown whore, you don't want to fuck with me. I was the one who got Conlon, not your little slut ass-"

Angel bucked feverishly under his stranglehold. "Yeah, you fucking Italian, only because I was the one who risked my ass to go to Brooklyn and get him before he committed suicide. I had him! I had him! As long as you could come intercept with your thugs and play kiss-ass to my brother you were fine with it-"

A bizarre smile alighted across Night's parched lips. "Yes, but who got the glory, peach? Is sure as hell wasn't you! You, along with the rest of Midtown, know that you're already out of favor with Oliver after that little comment that you said to him. What was is? That you fucked Conlon? Was it, Angel?"

Angel's face twisted into complete and utter rage and she was unable to respond. Night released a wild, oleaginous laugh, his dark eyes shining. "I told you long ago, Haddox, that I would be Oliver's new assassin, no if, ands, or butts. You, my dear bitch, like Conlon are over. Over. Tomorrow morning there will be no more Brooklyn. And tomorrow morning there will be no more Angel Haddox."

To conclude him ominous words, Night slammed her head against the wall, causing her vision to blur and cream-colored stars to appear. He smirked, a proud smirk. "Now go, you inglorious assassin, and see what the prisoner wants. Just no one would get the job, mind you. Only the dirtiest, most disgraced whore in Midtown."

The air purloined from her lungs, Angel slid down the wall, collapsing. She watched Night proudly sashay down the hallway through tear-stained vision. "Fuck you, Nero!" she croaked, in a cracked voice. Night erupted into a wild string of laughter, not giving her the honor of looking at her over his shoulder. "Good one, Angel of Death, good one. Tell that to Conlon and I'm sure he'll have no qualms whatsoever about taking a stupid slut like you into his keep-for one night anyway!"

She reached for the glittering revolver that was in her waistband, yet it was in vain. Night had disappeared around the corner and down the stairs. Inhaling a deep breath as much to save her soul as so halt the tears from flowing, Angel slumped against the wall and allowed the revolver to lie still at her side.

I told you long ago, Haddox, that I would be Oliver's new assassin, no if, ands, or butts. You, my dear bitch, like Conlon are over. Over. Tomorrow morning there will be no more Brooklyn. And tomorrow morning there will be no more Angel Haddox.

What had happened last night that was of so much damned significance that her reign as the Angel of Death was to be over? Under normal circumstances, she would have rather reasoned her trust in Nero Night's prattles to that of the venomous asp. Yet, she had always believed that the hatred between Midtown and Brooklyn would terminate in a glorious fight, with both leaders taking one another's lives. Night had said differently. He said that Midtown would reign supreme always and Brooklyn would crumble like a mound of sand against the tide.

The thought chilled her, after all, that Nero Night might be correct for once. It did indeed appear that Midtown would reign supreme over Brooklyn in the end.

After all, Spot Conlon was bound and gagged in the basement of the warehouse, slated to be executed tomorrow by the hand of none other than the Angel of Death herself.

***

The basement of the warehouse hadn't been used in years. As soon as Angel stood on the platform of the stairs, the sickening stench of rotten mold that smelt of decayed flesh washed over her completely and nearly made her disgorge her stomach. She carefully descended the flight of decrepit, antediluvian stairs that threatened to give way under her light weight. Though, most surprisingly, they did not, and she reached the atrocious room without much difficulty.

Save for the slight sliver of sunlight that was ushered in thanks to the dusty, cob-web laced window, a stale, murky darkness loomed in the expansive basement. Molding crates, rusted sheets of metal, broken shards of glass, and fallen rafters littered the room, along with an assortment of rubbish. The putrid odor incremented sharply in repugnance, and Angel was forced to switch the dirty mug of water to her left hand, pulling her shirt over her nose with the right.

Allowing her eyes to adjust to the darkness, Angel departed the stairs and carefully made her way towards the only source of light that glowed like a beacon, stepping gingerly over crates and brushing the spider-webs away with her free hand. Striding round a squared support column worn by age and stepping into the light, she cast her eyes down and saw him. Her breath bated painfully in her throat.

He was seated on the cold, smooth cement floor; his legs spread straight out in front of him and slightly spread. His lean, lithe arms were bound behind him to the column, tied cruelly together with a band of fringed, rough rope that dug into his wrists, causing small rivulets of blood to drip to the ground. His back was against the column and his shoulders hunched. His head lolled and hung shamefully down. A slovenly red bandaged covered his eyes, covered the welts and lacerations that adorned his face filthy face.

He had been in the same position ever since last night. Ever since he had been captured by Night and his thugs and handed over to Oliver as though he was a prized stag of some sort. He did not move.

Angel quickly averted her eyes from Conlon and fell to her haunches before his upturned, shoeless feet. As she set the dirty tin cup of water down-

There's still time.

-she realized that her hands were shaking violently. In turn, she slammed it against the concrete floor, eliciting a sharp tinny noise. Angel heard a slight groan permeate the air, though she did not dare raise her head. She merely placed the stale slice of bread atop the mug and rose to her feet, not meeting his gaze, and spun about, pretending to study the sunlight that filtered in through the window.

Because I can see it I can see it in your eyes I saw it in your eyes today I saw fear in your eyes you're nor one of them you want more but your scared shitless scared shitless you want to die in this life you created for yourself you don't know who the hell you've become but you don't want to die because you think somehow you can always go back to the past and the future will be brighter-

Conlon was stirring. He uttered a few syllables from his parched lips, yet she could not discern what they were. She simply kept her eyes to the filtered sunlight as though her life depended upon it.

I cry for him for our love and for the war who ever said all is fair in love and war has never experienced love and war for love and war are never fair-

Conlon was groaning. "Who-who's there?" His voice was weak, strained. He had used every last remnant of his commanding voice last night, as they were binding him, as he howled for help through the entire goddamned night.

There's still time-

"Please," Conlon's raw, infinitesimal voice pleaded. Angel inhaled painfully and held the breath in her lungs. She could begin to discern the faint tears laced within the supplication. "Please, please, if somebody is there, please help me. Untie me, please, oh God please untie me-" His voice was faltering. Yet he did not collapse into tears. She guessed that he had cried his last available tear during the long, eternal span of the night.

Angel slowly turned her head over her shoulder, her body following in a singular fluid motion until she stood facing Conlon. He had raised his head. She now could see the shattered, bloody nose; the rims of swollen black eyes hidden by the dirt encrusted bandage; the splices to the lips that had kissed so many; the bruises and lacerations that covered to much of his body; the filthy dirty blonde hair that was matted to his brow; the clothing that was ripped to shreds; and superlative above all the inflected bullet hole on the left shoulder where she had struck him with Oliver's pistol a few days prior. The bandaging had been ripped off, allowing thick, crimson blood to ooze slowly out.

He was Spot Conlon, the Fearless Leader of Brooklyn.

"Why pray to God?" she said tonelessly. "He does not exist. If you want to pray to someone, pray to Oliver Haddox. He is your God now. He is the one who holds your life in his hands."

Conlon jerked his head around weakly, the gesture causing the gun-wound to exert more dark claret. "Who's there?" he whispered hoarsely.

Angel smiled in spite of herself, padding over to him and falling to her haunches before him. "Fearless leader of Brooklyn, aye? I could have slit your throat right then and there. Though, I thought I would have the honor of killing the fearless leader of Brooklyn. Not some quivering mess on the verge of tears."

Conlon was silent for a moment. She could just as well discern those stunningly piercing blue eyes burning her soul from even under the blindfold. A mere piece of cloth could not keep that captured. "You," he whispered, "you." He paused, his ragged breathing encapsulating the putrid air. "But look here. I can shoot your brains out right here and now. Though, I thought I would have the honor of killing Oliver Haddox's most prized assassin. Not some quivering mess on the verge of tears."

He fell silent, though she could easily discern that he waited for her to reply to his challenging statement. She did not though; only reached for the bread and water with a somber countenance and held them slightly under his nose. She allowed him to capture the aroma that was a wonderful release from the putrid smell of the decaying basement. "Then why did you not?" she asked softly, simply, as she brought the tin cup to his lips and tilting it. The water cascaded out and onto Conlon's cracked lips. He immediately opened his mouth wide and greedily lapped at the water as though it were some type of sweet ambrosia of the gods.

He pulled back, allowing minuscule streams of water to run down his battered, smooth chin and onto his tattered shirt. "Knowing you, the damned water's most likely poisoned."

Angel raised a brow, breaking into a smile in spite of herself, and crouched beside him, as she brushed away a cockroach that had scurried over the tip of her slovenly shoe. She regarded his comely, yet hideous face in excruciating thoughtfulness. She quickly patted her pocket for a cigarette, found one, and fished it out. Placing it to her lips, she produced a match with a flourish and lit the cigarette, cupping her hands around it. She inhaled deeply. She did not even realize that she was smoking.

"No. Not poisoned. I would know. I poured it myself."

He snorted and raised his chin in pride so that his matted hair was pressed against the column. She knew those eyes were glaring at her darkly from behind the blindfold. "You are Midtown. I don't trust you as far as I can fucking spit. I would rather drink my own piss than your water."

Angel rose slowly to her feet, her joints cracking. She studied the impossibly arrogant Brooklyn leader with a hint of admiration as she inhaled on the cigarette. Even in such a squalid, degrading position, he kept his biting sense of superiority. "But I thought you were partial to water," she said lightly, clutching her hands behind her back. "Most notably the water underneath the Brooklyn Bridge?" She glanced back over her shoulder at him. She had struck the nerve. His body had gone rigid and his breathing ceased.

She continued. "I mean, is it just a discrimination against Midtown water? For you must like water if you were to choose it as your final resting place-or am I mistaking? You weren't really going to jump, were you? Or were you just looking over the railing at the sites below?"

He was silent for a few moments before he replied in a barely ineligible whisper laced with biting fury. "I know your brother. I've always known him. We are both leaders, only diverging on the aspect that he and his fucking Midtown are completely and utterly ruthless. I am just a simple newsboy trying to run a simple newsboy district. But your brother can't have that. He must eliminate the competition. Funny though, that there even should be any competition for has one Midtowner ever once sold a goddamned paper?" Angel did not reply. He continued, more venom pouring into his inflection, "I thought not. But he's going to kill me one way or another. You shot me-and I was in complete and utter agony; pain that was like thousands of swords. My pain and suffering would be over already if I had done it earlier. If you and that fucking grease ball hadn't been there to stop me, then this damnation that I live in would be over-"

He snorted. "I'm going to die, aren't I? How is it going to occur, Haddox, how? Please tell me that good old Oliver will at least be doing the honors himself!" He elicited a hoarse cackle that seemed to echo in the disgusting humidity of the basement. Angel's eyes were busily studying her lithe fingers. The weight of the revolver at against her side was staggering.

He slumped in his binding, his pate resting against the column that held him. Even with the heinous markings, the beauty of his face was disquieting in the pale sliver of sunlight that filtered through the dusty window. "Such an inglorious way to die. He won't even give himself, or myself, the honor of him doing it so he makes his sister do it-"

Angel's breath bated in shock, and she stood stiff in front of the window. "How did you-"

Conlon released a dry cackle, lowering his head so that she could feel those diamonds staring directly into her immortal soul. "Because, your brother's afraid to find any conflict on earth because if he were to die, he'd be too fucking frightened to find what is waiting for him at Judgment Day. Eternal fucking damnation. As I told you that night, I don't give a damn if I die, and to this day I truly don't. I've given up hope in this life that things can ever return to the way they were before I came to New York. When I was happy. I've accepted death. I've accepted that there is something far, far greater than this life. You, on the other hand, have not. You say you're afraid to die and contemplate every day committing suicide, but you can't because you know only this life and fear death and what will happen to you in the afterworld. Your parents. I remember them when your brother used to be a Brooklyn newsie. What are were their names?"

She did not realize that she had fallen to the smooth concrete beside him, cross legged. She stared at him with wide eyes brimming with tears. "Julia and Anthony. There names were Julia and Anthony."

"Your parents, no matter how brutal their slaying, have found peace. It is only the one that committed it that should fear dying, and that is your brother. You have done nothing. You are an innocent pawn and he knows this. Why else do you think that he had you commit all his shootings for him? He is afraid to do it himself for he fears what is going to occur to his soul after he dies. So he puts himself in situations where he cannot die and puts others in his place. You, on the other hand, have yourself convinced that you are an atrocity and that your soul will never be saved. Though you have nothing to fear, Angel Haddox. I told you that there's still time and I know there is.

"You only look at life as the only means of solution. That perhaps you can escape the life you've created for yourself and that you can go back to the past and that the future will be brighter. I've come to the conclusion that living on the streets means dying on the streets. You perhaps can escape them, but they will still always be a part of you. Death is the only way. No matter how hideous you sins, you can always confess them so that you may go to a better place. Even through this blindfold I can see it, for we are the same creatures, Angel Haddox. We are the same-"

"Please undo my blindfold." The amount of known failure in his voice was disquieting. "Please. If it has to end this way, then it has to end this way. I know it will end soon. If I am to be sacrificed then perhaps something good will come out of this whole thing. Perhaps this whole conflict will be resolved-" He issued forth a hoarse cough and his words slowly died.

There is still time Helena Haddox there is still time to save your soul-

With an excruciating slowness, Angel brought her hands behind Conlon's head, and as though he sensed it he bowed it. She twined her fingers through his slovenly hair as she carefully undid the bandana knot. The red piece of material fluttered and fell to his lap. Angel allowed her gaze to linger upon it, not wishing, not wanting with all her soul to raise her gaze to those impossible blue diamonds. Yet she felt them calling to her, burning into her soul, and she raised her eyes to his.

The eyes glowed brilliantly with their own intrinsic light, as though there was a radiant azure fire bound and captured behind those orbs, just as Conlon was bound and captured to Oliver Haddox, just as Conlon was bound and captured to her-

The eyes glowed through the matted strands of sullied brassy hair, through the swollen black bruised that rimmed and nearly encapsulated them. His eyes scanned hers desperately; feverishly; furiously. And a smile alighted upon his lips.

"I was taught to read, once, when I was younger. One play, mind you. And of the whole thing, I only remember one section. My grandfather taught it to me. 'Tis but they name that is my enemy/ Thou art thyself, though not a Montague/ What's Montague? it is nor hand, nor foot/ Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part/ Belonging to a man. O, be some other name!/ What's in a name? that which we call a rose/ By any other name would smell as sweet/ So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call'd,/Retain that dear perfection which he owes/ Without any title. Romeo, doff they name,/ And for that name which is no part of thee/ Take all myself."

As he concluded the final word, her eyes immediately shut, for she could not control the wrenching, overpowering sobs that raked through her entire body and soul. She hunched before him, shoulder blades quaking and face buried in hands, while he remained erect and bound against the column. She did not fully comprehend all of what Spot Conlon had said, and she dare not believe the notion that, in all her years of utter inner turmoil, that something was so unabashedly pristine.

She dare not even begin to comprehend what her mind was so violently ushering her towards. For if it was true, for it if it had been true all along, then she was to utterly decimate all tomorrow when she executed him. She could not bear it.

"Spot Conlon," she said softly, leaning in close to him, and placing a hand to his fair cheek laced with contusions. "What is your name?"

His swelled eyes widened at the question and looked somewhat stunned, though they abruptly relaxed. He shifted, and a horrific grimace passed over his face. The ice diamonds opened once more and he inadvertently tilted his head, so that her slender hand cupped his lacerated face.

"Jonathan. Jonathan Conlon," he replied breathlessly, his voice constricted with agonizing pain.

Angel did not realize the tears that slid liberally down her cheeks and onto Conlon's face. Her blurred, steel-hued eyes upon his azure eyes, strands of bright hair falling in her eyes and impairing her vision, she blindly fished in her pocket for the rosary that she had remembered placing there. She carefully removed it, and brought the pious item forward, and placed it about his neck in place of the key that had been situated there for so many years.

She looked into his eyes. And she knew it was devastatingly true. When she looked in those eyes she knew she could see-

Because I can see it I can see it in your eyes I saw it in your eyes today I saw fear in your eyes you're not one of them you want more but your scared shitless scared shitless you want to die in this life you created for yourself you don't know who the hell you've become but you don't die because you think somehow you can always go back to the past that the future will be brighter-

"Pray with me, Benjamin James Conlon," she breathed, her voice not daring to rise barely above a whisper. She had moved her head so close as that the bridges of their noses were touching, and had tilted her head. The hand that had been on his cheek moved to the back of his head and the fingers were twining themselves in his matted hair, the nails digging into his scalp. The other clutched the rosary that hung round his neck. Though her eyes were closed as tightly as humanly possible, the tears still slid down freely, wetting his assaulted visage. The sobs raked her and her body convulsed, though for the life of her she could not begin to fathom why for all reasoning had become unfettered and left her mind.

Helena, what do you have-

"The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want-"

Helena, you're shaking-

"He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters-"

Flynn gave it to me-

"He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake-"

You can't, Helena-

"Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me-"

Don't tell me I can't, Ben, don't you dare tell me I-

"Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over-"

Goddamnit, no, Helena, you can't-

"Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever-"

I can and I will because you are my soul, Benjamin Conlon-

"Amen."

At the finality of the prayer, she pressed her lips against his parched, splice ones. She pressed hungrily, greedily, the metallic blood tasting like copper. His lips pushed harder against hers, ravaged hers, wanted hers. The raw passion and want and desperation that surged through him was transferred to Angel, as she tasted the stale gin and dated nicotine that clung to his breath.

The tears came harder. She felt her soul within him. And she was going to execute him the following day.

From above, Angel heard Flynn calling. Heard Oliver calling. Heard Night calling. Blinded by tears, she released the captive leader and took the basement stairs three at a time, pushing violently past all of them, not stopping until she reached the third floor and was able to slam the door behind her and collapse on the mattress in a state of unbridled sobs.

Killing him, as much as she dare not think of the notion, would be like committing suicide-

Because I can see it. I can see it in your eyes. I saw it in your eyes today. I saw fear in your eyes. You're not one of them. You want more. But your scared shitless. Scared shitless. You want to die in this life you created for yourself, you don't know who the hell you've become. But you don't die because you think somehow you can always go back to the past, that the future will be brighter-

He had read her so immaculately. Had known all that she thought so flawlessly for the notion was not so incredulous: she and Conlon were alike. They shared a powerful reputation under a false appellation, their true name kept close to their hearts, unwilling to show their true nature. They had both created a façade, a façade that appeared crack-proof and faultless from an onlooker's perspective. They both were creatures of fear and blood, polar opposites in their allegiances-

He had read her soul and now she was to execute him for her brother, his corporeal foe-

She could not stand it. Could not bear it. Could not do it. Could not die without her soul.

The murderous bitch that was her revolver, the cold ebony assassin that she had signed her life away with in blood to care for, was mockingly heavy against her side.

If there were to be one last victim with it, then it would be her own life.

I cry for him, for our love, and for the war. Who ever said all is fair in love and war, has never experienced love and war, for love and war are never fair-

It was never fair. It would never be fair. And outside of Angel's room, after she finally allowed slumber to take her out of complete exhaustion, the sun was slowly dipping into the bloody western horizon, slowly ushering forth dawn-and slowly ushering forth the execution of a certain Brooklyn leader that would occur, that all of Midtown was already abuzz with.


	16. Chapter 14

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

She descended the stairs like a whisper, resembling a ghost in the pale nightgown, silver hair, and even paler face. They floorboards tacitly understood and were silent in their usual wails. She inhaled deeply; feeling as though the entire world had suddenly withdrew its complete source of air supply. She could not feel the vial she gripped so tightly in her hand.

She soon stood before him. In the darkness that enclosed the warehouse like a shroud, he had not noticed her. He straightened to attention, struggling to hold the pistol straight before him. His great belly shook under the tattered brown collar shirt that was too small and sweat on his brow caught the moonlight, shimmering. "Who, who's there?" his frightened voice came, barely even a hoarse whisper.

She took a step forward into a patch of starlight that invaded a window and splashed into the hallway. The flame of the candle she held wavered erratically. The light of it caused a great contrast of dark shadows on her otherwise pallor face. He mistook her for a ghost before she spoke to him; he cocked the weapon in panic. "It's only me, Hal."

He elicited an ostentatious sigh, allowing the pistol to fall lax to his side. He brought a forearm to his brown, wiping way the copious amount of perspiration. "Jesus Christ, Angel, I'se thought you were a fuckin ghost."

She did not reply. Her gaze seemed to be focused on the closed door behind him. A cold wave of fear crept up his backbone and he looked over his shoulder quickly to see if the prisoner was in the doorway or something. When he saw it wasn't so (door locked, just as Oliver Haddox had done so himself that evening,) he released a deep exhalation and cocked his head around once more. He yelped once more when he saw that Angel had moved closer to him. And now more than ever she truly did resemble an apparition.

"For Christ sake, Angel, you're going to give me a heart attack pulling that shit. You know I didn't want this job—I get jitters just being in a dark room—but no one else wanted it. So Oliver made us pull straws. I got the short one, but I think the others pulled something over my head. I think I was hood-"

"Then what, Hal, you want my fucking job tomorrow?" The utter and pure state of the rage that had manifested itself on her countenance in a matter of moments was stunning. He fumbled backwards, until his thick back hit the locked door and he could move no further. He instinctively shut his eyes so he would not have to witness that pale face contorted and those eyes just _burning_ into him—into his soul.

He began to stammer incoherently, fear overwhelming him, before she interrupted in a toneless voice, "I want to see him, Hal."

He stopped and opened his eyes. Her face was just as vacant as her voice. His jaw dropped and he locked her gaze. "Angel, I...I don't know. You know what Oliver said, you know what your brother said: No one is to go and see him. You may be his sister, Ang, put I can't just break the laws for you, no can-"

He halted when she had fluidly reached under the skirt of her nightgown and exposed her gleaming revolver. She pushed it to his face and twisted it rhythmically from side to side, allowing it to bathe in the moonlight. "Now, you see this, Hal?" she snarled.

"Yah...yes," he stammered, feeling as though his bladder was going to let go. He didn't like being so close to a weapon that had such a reputation, like the best whore in town.

"What does it do?" She held the weapon vertically, inches from his face.

"It...it kills people." He cursed the door for not being unlocked. He was trapped.

"Exactly," she replied, her voice indistinct, yet dark eyes flashing. "That's why I need to get to Conlon. Since I have shoot him tomorrow, I have to practice my good aim, or else-" With a practiced hand she leveled the revolver with Halloran's skull, cocked the trigger, and crushed it against his forehead. "—I wouldn't want an innocent bystander to have a bullet blow their fucking brains out, now would I?"

Hal Halloran could only allow for his fat chin to fall open and his bladder to burst. He did not even feel the hot urine rushing down the insides of his trousers, straining them in its path. He collapsed to the floor on a heap.

She regarded him with a raised brow and lowered the weapon, brushing past him. The fowl, coppery smell of urine filling her nostrils. She stepped to the thick door, raising the rusted latch and forcing it open as she was assaulted with squeals of hinges needing oiled. A thick, musty darkness loomed in front of her as she gazed down from the platform.

He's down there, he mind accused. You put him down there. Put him down there on the brink of death. Why do you not just do the favor now and kill him and spare him the humiliation of tomorrow?

Inhaling deeply, she raised the candle stick high as to penetrate the solid mass of shadows. Her grasp tightened about the vial in her hand so that she had to force herself to relent or else if would have cracked. She began to descend.

The stairs were not so kindly to her, as they announced her appearance with great flourish and procession. She knew he was aware of her appearance before her bare feet even touched the cold of the concrete ground.

A rustling occurred somewhere within the swirling shadows and the metallic clink of metal reverberated from somewhere. Her eyes began to dimly adjust to the darkness.

"Who...who's there?" the weakened voice came. His voice was cracked, parched, not above a whisper. It caused her heart to shatter into a thousand pieces.

As she drew closer, she could see his outline and the thick, black patches that surrounded the floor and walls around him. Before she could contain her emotions, she choked back a sob and ran to him, her hands growing lax and the vial tumbling carelessly to the ground.

She stumbled and skidded on a substance wet in viscosity and fell to her hands and knees beside him. She bathed in the substance as she frantically placed his face within her hand. "What is this? What is this? What in the name of Christ did they do to you?"

His cold, lifeless eyes met hers. In response, he made a hocking sound deep in his mouth and spat. The phlegm was laced with black blood. Teeth came out with the mixture.

"Back so soon, Haddox? Come to greet me with sympathies? Oh, they took it that they didn't like me that much after you left this afternoon," he narrated in a beaten voice with a hint of mockery. She dipped her fingers in the liquid and brought them to the flame. "No, they took it they didn't like me much at all." The liquid was a dark black-red. Just as when Oliver had slain her mother and father. His hands. His hands. His hands had been covered, bathed, soaked in—

Her voice rose to a near shriek. "What did they do to you? What in the blue fuck did they do to you? Blood! Blood everywhere!"

"Lower your voice, Haddox. You don't want your brother to find out that you are visiting the prisoner, do you? How did you get past the diligent guard that was posted? I thought the son of a bitch had orders no one could see me," he hissed, bucking his head in a jerky motion.

A hush fell across Angel and the tears immediately came to her eyes. "What did they do? What did they do? Where did they hurt you?"

The bright light of the candle flame caught his azure eyes, yet they retained no glimmer. They were the eyes of a man who possessed the fatalistic knowledge that his life was to end soon, the seconds slipping through his fingers like the sands of time. He saw that she had begun frantically ripping apart her dressing gown in a flurry to wrap the fabric around his wounds. "Save yourself, Haddox," he growled with a bitter rage. "Night was pretty fucking thorough. There's not enough material to heal my wounds now."

She halted and slowly raised her eyes. He had released a great sigh and bowed his once proud head, his soiled dirty-blonde hair caked with blood falling across his brow. The red bandanna was tied cruelly around his head, mockingly resembling a crown of thorns. What little of a shirt he had worn was now extinct, as his thin, lithe chest showed the markings of numerous beatings by the hands of Nero Night while Oliver Haddox looked on in blood-lust. She allowed the candle light to survey his body. The deep gash lacerations formed malicious zigzags across his insipid skin. They hooked onto the blooming bruises like stems of great purple and ebony flowers in their prime.

She began to weep. She placed a hand to her eyes and wept uncontrollably. She then felt the monstrous lashing to her chin. The force drove her to topple to her side and stifle her sobs. She cupped a hand to her assaulted part and regarded him wildly. His eyes smoldered through the deep bruising and blood and wisps of matted hair. They blazed with unbridled fury.

"Why did you do that? Why?" she howled like an injured animal, not knowing whether more out of agony or an internal ache.

He thrust his bare feet out before her, his carriage erecting against the pillar he was bound to. His eyes burned into her soul. "Why do you cry for me, Angel Haddox, why?"

Why. The question wrest such total and utter control of her entire psyche that she disregarded the pain, all the miserable pain. She regarded him, her red-rimmed eyes wide. "Why?" she echoed softly. "Why?" she repeated with more ardor as she understood the query.

His majestic face contorted into rage and he brutally kicked the metal mug that held his water forcefully away. His eyes entirely blazed; the fire was ignited. "Why? Why the fuck do you cry for me? You are Angel Haddox and I am Spot Conlon. I am your mortal enemy. You who came to Brooklyn to slay how goddamned many of my innocent newsies. You who gleefully shed blood without a whim or a care in the world-"

The agonizing pain began in her belly and spew up her throat like molten lava from a volcano. "What? What do you mean?" her sobs rang. She crawled towards him, the blood soaking through her night gown and violating the pristine nature of the whiteness.

He brutally kicked her away. He writhed against the pillar, the rope that bound his wrists digging into the soft flesh and drawing more blood. "You weep for yourself. You weep for your immortal soul. You don't give a single damn for any other creature on this Earth but yourself. You weep because you must kill me tomorrow and that would fuck your chances with Jesus, it really would, wouldn't it? You weep because I am a martyr for your own soul and you are the one to pull the goddamned trigger. So save me your tears and your sympathies. They are nothing more than tears for your own fucked-up life!"

Angel recoiled, paralyzed as though water had been induced in her veins, turning crystalline. Yet the ice soon turned as a blazing, white-hot fury swept over her, blinding her vision. She released a scream of unadulterated hatred as she brandished her violent mistress and aligned it point blank with his brow. One eye squeezed tightly and aimed on her target, her arms quivered fantastically. Her heart smoldered. She cocked the trigger. "You seem to have all bets on the idea that I give some sort of fuck about you. So tell me, what the hell makes you different from all of your boys—except you won't end up in the river of course."

With that, his entire countenance brightened. His eyes gleaming like chips of glass, the proud, arrogant smirk that alighted upon those beautiful lips caused her to wonder at awe as he resembled the Fearless Leader of Brooklyn in all his glory. "What, Angel of Death? Can't pull the trigger? Need more time?"

There is still time Helena Haddox there is still time to save your soul-

There is still more time there is still more time—

There is not anymore time left.

She broke, gazing into those abhorrently arrogant eyes. They emblazoned into her soul, yet she could sense something, something else—fear, fear behind those orbs.

"No there is not!" she screamed, falling to her hands and knees. Tears blurring her vision, sobs raking her, and her flaxen hair wild, she crawled through the thick, congealing blood to behind the pillar where his wrists were bound. Producing her switchblade, she tightly grasped his wrists and savagely sawed through the thinning rope. Cutting him free, she threw his hands down and came around front. He was flexing his fingers, in disbelief that he had been set free. "Here!" she shrieked, thrusting the revolver into his battered hands. He raised his head to catch her utterly insane gaze. "Here! Take it! Do it! Take your revenge for Brooklyn!"

Taking the base of the weapon, she brought it to the direct center of her forehead. She cocked the trigger. "Do it! Pull the trigger, goddamnit! Fucking kill me! You have me in your hands so do it! Prove once and for all you are the Fearless Leader of Brooklyn."

His exquisite, sliced lips formed a perfect O as he regarded her with utter incredulity, his arms taunt in front of him and the revolver settled point blank at her head. She did not realize it, but his arms trembled badly.

"Do it!" she screamed hysterically, her eyes alight and scared. "Do it now! Kill me! Blow my brains out! Take your vengeance for Brooklyn and then return to them! You have won!" The tears then consumed her entire body and she felt impossibly tired, exhausted. She closed her eyes and bowed her head, brow still resting against the barrel. Her golden hair fell across the weapon. "Please," the whisper escaped in a raw voice, "please, Jonathan Conlon, if you have any mercy in your soul, please shoot me. There is nothing left on this Earth for me. I have said my final rights. Please take pity on my soul."

I watch as bombs hit the ground—

She felt the cold barrel being relieved from her sweaty forehead. She did not open her eyes. "Oh, God, Angel," she heard him whisper in his broken voice, "I can't shoot you."

To my left-

She opened her eyes. They stared directly into his azure ones. They were filled with unshed tears. As bright as a benediction sky before the rain. As blue as a sea before the raging storm. He had not killed her. He could not kill her.

To my right-

"Why?" she asked in a low voice void of emotion. "Why did you not do it?"

I look around for my love—

The diamonds opened and he regarded his hands. He rubbed them together and allowed the tips of his fingers to lightly trace the deep gashes that the rope binding had created. The bandanna had loosened and had fallen over one eye. He did not seem to notice. He winced in pain and his eyes flickered to hers. "I have been involved in many girls. But they have never gotten me in this much trouble."

He showed no sign of amusement at his remark.

For he is fighting—

"I may be called the Fearless Leader of Brooklyn, but I have never taken a human life unless it was the ultimate decision. Plenty of my boys would have loved to have your head brought to me on a platter before this; you see even two of them tried on the night we were supposed to have the war-council. They tried without success and with insubordination. I knew who you were. I knew who you were when you crashed my poker party dressed as a whore. I'd wager while you straddled me you were contemplating on slitting my neck; don't think it hadn't crossed my mind. But I kissed you, and all fucking reason went flying out the door. I hated and loathed you and wanted to murder you. But I felt something...I felt, myself, and I could finally explain myself..."

In this war—

"And I knew what kind of fucking creature you were, but I honestly didn't think myself much better. I know I am nothing. I am an illiterate kid who fucked a bunch of dames and ran a dirty newsie operation. You think I like what I have become? You think I like looking towards a future in the slammer?"

Because I can see it. I can see it in your eyes. I saw it in your eyes today. I saw fear in your eyes. You're not one of them. You want more. But your scared shitless. Scared shitless. You want to die in this life you created for yourself, you don't know who the hell you've become. But you don't die because you think somehow you can always go back to the past, that the future will be brighter—

I walk along the injured—

"There is nothing in this fucking life for us. Absolutely nothing. That's why we have to make time. We have to make time to save our souls. To have the life we always wanted in the next one."

But I don't see him—

"Down here, I have thought a lot. I never had time. I had time, but I never thought. And now that I have it, I thought. I said before I am not afraid of death and I still hold true to that this very minute. That's something I would never give up. I would never surrender my pride. I am proud of what I have made Brooklyn into and I will be loyal to her until my very last breath. Just like a witch at the stake, if Oliver were to say, 'Recant your sins, heretic!' I would never speak ill of Brooklyn, ever. Brooklyn is my life, my heart, and my soul. If I need to die for her, then I need to die for her."

And the hope inside me brightens—

"Why don't you just leave? You are free. He can't get you. You have all you want. Go."

He is alive—

He released a dry laugh and brought his knees to his chest. He ran a bloody hand through his hair, the bandanna falling unfettered beside him. "Leave? What good would me leaving do? I go to Brooklyn and tomorrow Oliver finds me missing? He invades Brooklyn looking for me and kills every last one of my boys? I could never let anyone destroy my brothers, my family. And I would have to deal with that knowledge every day for the rest of my life, on the run and out of New York."

And well—

"I am not afraid to die, Angel. I am not afraid to die because I have pride and honor in something that I created and that I love. But you. You are afraid to die. But you want to. There is nothing here on earth. You honestly think there is more to life. That you can be a filthy fucking murder and wake up married to Mayor Van Wyck's son. Oh, it's the dream to start out a bummer and make something of yourself, but that is bullshit penned by artists. Bummers like us can't get nowhere. That's why I took the time. And I saved my soul because I know it's the only chance I have left to make something of myself. I have a clean conscience and I have not a fear in the world of dying."

I think-

"I saw you though," she said, "When Oliver finally got you. You were on the Brooklyn Bridge in the pouring rain ready to make the jump. And you say you are not afraid of death?"

But I am wrong—

"I am not afraid of death. I am afraid of you."

Deadly wrong—

"Of me?"

For I see him laying there right in front of me—

"Yes. I love you and I hate you and it is a dangerous thing. I've hated you since you and your assassin partner first took the life of my newsie. But I have loved you ever since I've kissed you. I hate the Angel of Death. I hate Oliver Haddox's sister. But I know there is something more. I know you hate what the world made you want something more in life. And that I love."

I run to him—

He was beautiful. So exquisitely beautiful. With the words, sanity eluded her, and although she was familiar with her physical self, she no longer knew of what dwelled inside her mind. She pulled her body over to his. The blood ate at her white nightgown hungrily. Hot tears streamed down her face and she fell into him. She could not think, could not breathe, could not move. She loathed him and hated him, reviled and despised him. Yet she worshiped and adored him, loved and glorified him. He was her enemy, her nemesis, her savior and redeemer. There was nothing more to say. "O, how can I do this tomorrow?"

And touch his pale face—

A faint smile alighted upon his battered lips and he cupped her chin with his fingers warm with blood and tilted her head upwards. "Do you love me?"

And cold lips—

"Yes," she said, losing for the final time any sense of reason, any sense of loyalties, and any sense of the world. Her chest constricted agonizingly in her chest and she could not breathe. "With my entire heart and soul. I cannot lose you. I cannot lose you-" Doing the only thing that could halt the painful hurt in her searing heart, she brutally pressed her lips to his, the taste of coppery blood mixing with the salt of the tears to for a unique elixir. She drank him, giving herself over to him utterly and completely. Her mouth felt the deep crevices in his cracked, sharp lips; felt the warm sensation of the liquid.

Her heart leapt into her mouth and her mind disintegrated.

Tears fall down my cheeks—

He broke away, holding her close in the bitter dark. He held her shaking body in the cold dark. "All that you love is never lost." His words entered her ear like a warm breeze.

And see he is no longer with me—

Inspiration suddenly struck her. "Wait," she cried, shaking herself from him and fumbling in the shadows for the vial, the precious vial she had wholly forgotten of. She returned, a handkerchief grasp tightly in her fist. She sank beside him.

And in another world without me—

He placed his hands around the wrists of her outstretched hands and the object that she held in her palms. The grip became tighter.

"You're shaking," he said quietly, his eyes to the object displayed to him.

She choked back a sob. She could see him studying it intently, though her eyes needn't waver from his beautiful face for she had gazed intently at the object many times before: the glass vial with the rounded body and slim neck that was covered by the white handkerchief.

"Flynn gave it to me," she whispered, her voice wavering erratically due to the tears. "If we could never complete a mission and had our backs to the wall..."

His piercing eyes immediately flickered up to hers. "You can't."

Her body had become so numb that she could not even feel the smoldering tears that slid liberally down her cheeks. "I can and I will because you are my soul, Jonathan Conlon."

I cry for him—

"I have to," she sobbed. "You have to. We have to. I want to be with you. I can't tomorrow-"

For our love—

Fury crossed his exquisite face as he expertly snatched up the vial and flung it across the basement, where it landed in the thick shadows with a slight shattering.

Her eyes alight, absolute disbelief coursed through her veins at his actions. Yet she could not speak, could not utter a word; she found her self inexplicably mute. She knew he was going to die tomorrow by her hand. Killing the one she loved. Murdered by the one he loved. She knew he had ready and prepared his soul for tomorrow and nothing would persuade him otherwise.

And for the war—

It was then she heard the voice. "Halloran? What the hell happened to Halloran? Hello? Hello? Is anybody down there?"

Flynn's voice.

Her panic stricken eyes fell to him, yet he only gazed straight forward into the dark, contentment etched onto his travestied face.

For whoever said all is fair in love in war—

The stairs echoed and wailed under the weight of the footsteps.

Angel reached for her revolver.

Flynn's golden visage appeared, highlighted by a candle.

She cocked it.

He dropped the wick in complete and utter shock.

And pointed.

Darkness engulfed him.

"Angel? Angel is that you? What in the blue fuck are you doing down here? And what the hell happened to Halloran? You know even you aren't supposed to be down here. If Oliver finds you and he will kill you."

There was the sound of a flint being struck, and Flynn's candle roared to life once more.

"Angel," he said, his green eyes reflecting light and glimmering. "I told you to get the hell up. I don't want to get caught down here by Oliver. And what the hell you doing down here with Conlon? Get the hell up and come on. Why do you have that thing pointed at me?"

She was rising to her feet as she felt his warm breath flutter into her ear. She closed her eyes and savored it, feeling the first prick of tears. "You know what you have to do. I am ready. But I know you will do the right thing. There still is still time. I love you, Helena Haddox."

She felt him secretly place the warm, metal object in her palm. The metal object on the chain. His key. She stifled a sob.

Has never experienced love and war—

She rose, stained with blood, cheeks wet, yet erect and proud. She walked to Flynn. He regarded her incredulously, and then gazed over her shoulder.

"Hey, what the fuck you looking at, Brooklyn?" He started for his revolver at his side. "Want me to give you a little head start on tomorrow?"

He halted when he felt the barrel of the revolver against his skull. "Flynn," she said tonelessly, colorlessly, below a whisper. "Put your fucking gun down or I will blow your brains out."

Flynn Finesse's brain could not comprehend his assassin-partner's words. In all their years together she had never spoken out of turn to him. He turned to retort, yet in the candle light found her ascending the stairs like a whisper. And then she was gone.

He glanced at Conlon and then blew out the flame.

For love and war are never fair.


End file.
